Psychedelic Corn Nuggets Vol. 1

(Automatic Writing)

A tinseled adjective is festooned with ripped particles, still slouching on the terrace, eyes open in gridlocked yarns but he can still see those things in the crow’s nest, man. An octopus yawns without being large, rich too, do you know what I mean? Can you pick up what I’m breathing on? It doesn’t matter what religion, creed, astrological sign or what’s your favorite color, all walks of life converge on a needle upon which dance a thousand angels, calling you an angel, calling you darling, calling you anything and everything at all, but what do I know. You can’t ask me what I think — it only gets larger and larger the more I worry, the less I think but also why not groove, or indeed get high, on a far-out nutjob trip like mine? You can’t think of another reason but your heart swells and swells. This is what I do when I’m trying to sleep — I think of the most absurd reasons why there’s an elephant in the sky, holding up the sun with his trunk, he’s got a beak, did I mention he’s got a beak, at the end of the trunk, and a tortoise shell. A pretty funny picture, wouldn’t you say? But I’m not even thinking, I’m just doing, and what I want to do is sit under a tree and fall forward into the mud, leaned over so far staring at my navel that’s all I could do, man, and don’t think any different. It’s bad when you don’t think, but turn off your mind and join me downstream, floating, and we’ll have a hell of a time — no LSD required. I’m the kind of trip you can bring your children to. I’m listening to a strained spaghetti siren on the top of the world, festooned with clauses, the Santa clause, ho ho ho and to all a good night, if only we could listen to it. But what do I know? Have I said that already? Have I really said anything at all? I don’t think so. But a zig-zagged pelican flies backwards underneath an orange sun. The rest of the world keeps spinning in their own time, a very long peculiar time, but it passes me by and I don’t mind none — not taken in by no world or no spinning politicians with orange skin rumpled with age, yammer yammer yammer, yammer yammer yammer, you know what I mean. But can you dangle off the precipice of your imagination into the yawning mouth of an alligator, one foot on the brake, one foot falling forwards forever in a starless voice, octopus arms swinging wildly. I won’t bore you too much. Only a thing such as this could ever put voiceless herrings in a pearl of my eye, triggering cascades of falling water and rocks, leaves and a big green ocean — whatever it takes to trip over your emotions! The emotion ocean. Peace.