Samstag, 18. August 2012
"I might be underdressed"
Blind baby Dalton, a colt and four bullets, a crazy hide and seek with the guys from fashonweek, "If I look real enough my soul will blossom" a missing link to communication, never interested in ancient wisdom but in the short fix of a glory glory chemical angel, bringing the guestlist to Heaven, that new, mad place down south, the Blingbling roaring with an imaginary bassline, braincells, braincells, you can't wear them, if a mirror isn't a thought then why even bother - "you tell me" - but in the evening we're all the same except those guys that chose wrong, beauty is essential, why don't they get it? And I stand oustide there, just looking, no, I don't need your flyers, my own vintage sale got rid of the pictures of some lone wolves and we still have in store parts of the the angelic desert where our brains become a giant flesh eating plant, feasting on the numb, hasn't it always been like this, did some people miss to get off the train - what train - what wisdom but all the small shops render this obsolete