...like a cocaine fall

There are moments that I find myself wrapped in that I know are charged with some strange energetic, some dynamism of magic and creation...I feel as if I am treading in a field of chaos and electricity right now- a rare event of capture. I know this may read a bit arcane, but understand that it feels fairly elusive and welding words onto an experience you don't understand is tremendously challenging; even for a wordsmith, but fun nevertheless the difficulty. I guess the only palpable difference for me is the way I experience experiences. Wait. That seems a bit abstruse to me even knowing what I mean. What am I trying to write? What kind of question is that to ask oneself when an audience will be ever welcome and able to peruse these lines, seemingly self-reflexive, searching for distinction and specificity like a dog chasing his tail ad infinitum. Let's stop this now! Slow the heat schedule of meaning to a medium cook. The flesh and fat get tender to words and slide easily from page to pupil to medulla oblongata and back again ad infinitum...When the stars align just right and she winks back in time (you can smell her daisy perfume from across a crowded, hot room, so cool and sweet)- ya, when the balance of correction and the devil is just perfect, when thought and union join in sexual congress, and her tongue's caress, that cusp of never and yes, the wild! I love the freedom and feeling of fearlessness that overcomes my psyche when I perform writing. It tickles in my belly like a cocaine fall, when I pilot the power of language, direction and acceleration- quickened all the while. And the lovelies! The lovelies give me urge and impetus! You are the lovely, dear reader. The first steps of adventure on the left hand path are breath snatching...an immediate vacuum, potential oblivion warning!...and then the work begins again and again. Down to take that risk, a first punch, who shot first? Each excruciatingly delightful second is life or death on the blade run...even her smile reflecting the sun signifies neither loss nor won, nor best or worst. These conditions are illusory as is the difference between Cult and self...

I'll be trying to formalize these abstracts to a language recognizable by the Cult of Los Angeles. The Cult I am so madly in love with...and lust toward depending on drug or mood- the urge to ravish, ravish the Self and World to union. The only instinct is to keep it fresh and cool for the lovelies...from engagement with them do I derive immortality and attempt to reciprocate with each line of language.