Byline: Flake and Shake

Buford Youthward

When rock becomes air, I will be there. Burning incense sticks, digging the strange terrible beauty of loneliness.

Another building builds chaos from order as a pack of wild werewolves go by. The ship of knowledge serves inspiration as the duty of craft serves imagination.

Harsh edged echoes spike the sonic plane. A spell is cast and digital information flows like wine from the graves of history's correspondents.

With a hocus pocus I get in focus asking if graffiti is just an avenue of escape for edge dwelling idealists and bored arsonists.

An army of demons will the world away and benefit from the actions of your creative spirit. Hang in there.

Infamous bodies await a spirit of spit and vigor. The gypsy woman gets her spirits summoned. In conventions of politics everyone has their tricks.

The valor of angels in valleys of hell on earth below aren't waiting, hesitating or contemplating. They're riding straight in.

A joker in a movie theater goes ballistic and a society thinks it is forced to account. The mind and will of one can see to it that many lives become undone.

Locked and loaded, bombs exploded, another hearts corroded, another love's eroded. Get your creative like fireworks that pop in the night sky.

It's so hard trying to be in a band that no one will forget. But something in me, makes me, compels me to keep going.

Every graffiti writer in the world knows what I'm talking about. Their profit game leaves no shame, refuses all blame.

I was made, not born, created to flake and shake, set forth to create and co-create. Money is the medium in America and all points west of the edge of somewhere else.

Demons on murder tantrums solicit tears and envelopes for undertakers and we are left savoring the strange terrible beauty of togetherness.

Atonement and making amends are not two different things. It's a hard lesson to learn.

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