Radio Control

Someone said it was 5:00, but I didn’t know if that was a.m. or p.m.   The light & the dark were perfectly balanced & I staggered through it wearing sunglasses.   “Your skin-deep technicolor tide pool aura precedes you,” saith the go-go dancer who crowned me with such pleasant hyacinths, hereby granted & bestowed upon, inked & aligned, all gone cavernous with allegiance.   It takes a finely threaded stone & a feather of regret to slip the noose.

The Golden Tarantula, the Chrome Flamingo & assorted metallic refugees attend the demolition.   It was a ukulele banjo situation with bop feedback from the rhythm section.   One passionate reel anointed ordains an unceremonious surrender.   So it goeth, & we follow.

Translation:
1. Sitting in the dark         5. Black Mazatlan
2. Trickle, trickle               6. Yonder
3. Blink                                   7. “Dwelling secure in the hollow ship”
4. What say ye?                   8. Mumbles

(Except he meant every word of it.)

Thereby with dactylic precision Malibu Barbie steps down from the confidential joy ride & confessional.   In another century or three all is forgiven.   From the ruins we’ll watch the fog slip in beneath a subliminal sunset following the zig-zag line that runs from low tide to adios out near the flapping wings you can always trade in for a damp stretch of pavement.