Thursday

The Auteurs Stayed Impatient.

We rise, recent, young, and somnambulant. A subculture of recreation, game-like drug abuse, and creaky nightmare music. Seething grind, pulsing tension. The dramatic constant. My memory shifts in tale-thick suffocation, and the mean-streets burn.

The what-ifs explode, past us and on to space, drowning into yelps of severed narrative. Low-budget camp, razor-like space curls, star-journey hair. Sci-fi name, center-plot subliminals, I climax aptly. She jerks the head sharply, pulsing my olson into a memory vortex. Memory with a narrative flick, to follow the constant gay abrasions.

My prospective encounters gasp. The high-risk narrative subdued, a clouded can of screaming filmstrip. The exploding mean-streets reduced into due stimulants, chemical consequences, and penile groans. Masked sounds, always on the increase, a sexually severed eight-can classic. The wolf lands, another crystal coincidence.

The lyrics grind by.


David Lynch.