Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Control at 2692.8 inches a second

Drip, drip, drip, drip black oil snares grey pavement with white hot beat.  Rorschach leers, a nod homage.  Hypnotic grooves funk buh…buh.bump rubber’s reply to cement.  928, third gear, 121.73 feet.  Momentum marks time.  Gnarls contrast basso profundo under engine heat.  Summer is here, covered and rollin’ deep.  

Heroes die, they give in, die when they are done.  Vineyard plunged, Rolls vacillation reprieve.  There was something so pleasant about that place.  All I remember is thinking I want to be like them.  In the Bentley even your emotions have an echo in so much space.  I remember when I lost my mind.  But it wasn’t because I didn’t know enough, I just knew too much.  

Barkley’s sound is the smile with his new gun.  The time of your life, think twice it’s no coincidence I’ve come.  Ever since I was little it looked like fun.  Does that make me crazy?  Possibly.  Bless your soul, you really think you’re in control at 2692.8 inches a second. Crazy is the sinner's gospel anthem replete.

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