Byline: Sugar Drip

Buford Youthward

Parties of noise detonate at the flea market of music. Mangled cotton blends mingle with steel strings and gang vocals. Stolen releases hang in the mean time.

Balancing disgrace and dignity feels like a fight between the authentic and fabric. Still some come off with axes to sling and end up home stuck with guitars to string.

To be inhuman if only for a moment and personify a century, a lifetime, a memory with the loudest of intentions, proudest invention, and sweetest confection, there's no better game than trying to make shit drip like sugar.

Confusing love and obligation is what makes most of us bitter. On a conquest for taste I plug my radiator with black pepper and get my glasses on continuing to think that, like all great entertainment, some lives are meant to be read.

Flirting with false patterns and falling for the particles makes me feel less. Bringing attention to identified issues is all dirge and drone.

Some kind of octopus king from the lost planet allows oil to become our jesus just like so many little plastic ceremonies of the soul.

The void is the boundary of heaven and Earth, triggering off strange electricity that tickles my chemistry and text messages me rhythm.

These mad rhythm messengers join the battle and journey on, not knowing that efficiencies come without profit and anyone off message gets offed.

There's science in the silence but a greater need to exchange math and work up some arithmetic quick.

Don't be like a junk drunk punk hung motionless in the wait, in the shadow of action, hand insulted, mind unmoved.

Get your mind like the pure water it was before you were born, until evil passions troubled it and you needed justification for having romances with music and cans of color.

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