Crooked, cracked out charm, whiny creaks in doors and those gaseous melodies festering through — this is how we feel when we wake with smokey mouths and silently revel in the fragrant and peculiar pleasures of last night. How many crashing thunders of bass and tips of tempo defiance can a woman take before her shorts fall off and the vibrating ground beneath her ass carries into her. Where inspiration drives a sound, intention is beautifully missing, making way by cousin of happenstance to our ears and hearts and nerves as if it has nothing else in the universe to do.
It’s the frequencies of terrified lust and those incomprehensibly bizarre intersections of space, time and desire; serendipity put out on a platter beside nutrients’ grandiose plan.
When Spazzkid rains, firelight forgiveness and lotus grips pour. Delight, get far, far, far.