the fecund streets

These fecund Cult of Los Angeles streets...spray paint and spit, hashish, blood and desperate sweat. The flesh left behind, in the breach between self and the World, stuck and sticky, like honey, but with a metallic taste, like iodine, red orange on a nine-year-old's moist mocha skin. The streets exact a price on anyone who runs them, even the predator/rebel/artist meandering down uncharted, dangerous left-hand paths to more and more complex, chaotically arched story lines...I tell you from deep and intimate experience that the price is high, but that is the rub of ego. We can start the mint, sometimes at will and sometimes after an intense internal movement. But to be that close to the spark of culture mining, of which even the Cult of Los Angeles is wrought, worked from is worth the emotional and constitutional duckets that I tithe and sacrifice daily. It is like a church relationship through a distorted lens. And I guess, at times, I find comfort in strange places like these. Makes me feel elitest, at the lowest key, the note not outside the range of hearing, but outside the perception, a complex and bending language that attenuates to a point...

I'll remain with my head close to the curb, livid with detritus and the code to the brilliant and the new, the continuation of it's fresh again and again...yes, that code is what I risk my life for in the Cult of Los Angeles. Sometimes she's soft. And sometimes that fervid stink is so virulent, I refuse to put it in my mouth. Yet, at all times, she's still a lady, my holy ground, Cult of Los Angeles.

"writhing in her moist betwixt, the rapture, dope, expressionless..."