tangledupinblue

Fifteen jugglers
Fifteen jugglers
Five believers
Five believers
All dressed like men
Tell yo' mama not to worry because
They're just my friends

~~~~daily dylan~~~

Dust, man, dust. It's rolling like fungal waves of mesmerizing happenstance blindingly scribbled across the desert. "Who goes there?" shouts a cliched cacti sentinel, held stone-faced like a troubadour's vision of an unchanging lady of reproachless virtue. No one calls for me tonight.

No one called last night.

Cold, man, cold. How can the hottest place on earth get so damn cold at night? "Dry heat" laughed the monkey-faced wrangler at the the produce festival in Monterrey four years ago. "Dry heat" he said and rang a medley of filth on the dead brass of a spitoon ring. No love will call for him. What's left to ever lift his heart?

A whore?

. .A win?

. . . A score?


. . . . A kill?

. . . . . What's left for the filthy wrangler?

. . . . . . What's left for the filthy, wrangler?

/ / / / / / / / /\ \ \ \ \ \ \ He's with them tonight -- some shanty town

Somewhere.

Maybe they killed forty-seven this time, black forty-seven, dead men dead.

~~~~~~~ Undertaker smiles.

And the bitch of it all is that I'm alone in a desert with plumes of the cold dead mosquitos taking the romance right out of the solitude and no one fucking calls at all.

This is Trash.


I'M RICK JAMES BEEEEEACH!