blujazzpanic

Sexually dormant in the circle of oblivion, out in the suburban monotony and the city’s drone, lies a passionate disbelief at myself for even giving this music journalism a chance. The raves of 18-20 year-olds are long since stayed up for and missed easily along with the rest of the glittery social network online and on the phone. Misdirection stuck on music’s taxidermy station vice, stuffed with chopped liver and raw eggs as a filler, split in two halves like a sandwich with 100 dollar bills as the bread; this is how America’s running.
This manic depressive, zapped era, regurgitated all its bullshit after the millennium, and turned into the 21st century warehouse ecstasy chasing location, becoming uninvolved with raw, unchartered genders inside and distracted, wrecking ball influenced stations, built of substances masking the lack of invention in the supposed hands of the late night, early morning, mix-a-lot foreigners, who are recognized by their silver glittery suits, who crowd the empty streets. Keeping warm, I feel the soul of this new perception a mission, which results to my changing seduction from committed clockwork into impossible heterosexual interruption. The planes roared to land, coming out of the building’s surrounding thunderclouds like a dragon puffing goodbye to paper—the skeleton of the last soldier to love in my generation–in panic’s brigade waltzing and dancing with the diminishing love and history waterlines –not quite a fading story a lifetime away from telling—music was high and dead and alive and there at least for the present. The alarm a radiating snap I feared like the sunrise on a sleepless night and I listened to the waves on that coast of a past prison holding landscape’s drowning threat to the horizon line– prescript failure and fate rising on the waves of the storm— we held each other in the hazy breeze, earphones, history and I crying and grinning the Dylan and Lou and others I hold in the palm of my hand, dead today or not, keep me here.