The Music Of The Unknown

The smell of gold pours a lambent odor on the periphery of a flower. This is the music of the unknown. It bends to hear the skin of a calendar. Prehistory is foggy this year. The lights are softly dimmed and the effect is an option. You can either face reality or do whatever reality is writing down in your inner Mick Jagger. And then make a song out of that. Maybe that’s all we need, a little red rooster and a desolation striking the air with surprising force. You don’t expect that from paint. And when language tries to substitute paint for reality, the effect can be a Spanish bus station, and an old woman in a black shawl selling rolls of toilet paper to people on their way to the rest room. It makes you take another look at credit. Is life worth the investment? As a general characteristic, it’s cynicism that keeps me going. Keeps me talking. And when I encounter old friends, I enjoy the sensations of delirium groping around in my soul for something to say. The language of earth is invoked to open the dirt and let the elves come staggering out in a state of extreme intoxication. This is the narrative I originally greased with the seaweed of shipwrecks. I mean, you know, the mushrooms of the human chest. I no longer have ambitions. I have socks. I’m going to walk through a tunnel now, and when I come out the other side, I will hand you the beginning of stars. The gold in the apple of nothingness.