Had thee dream last night. The one about making thee record. The one that I used to have all the time. The full moon dream sessions, lost hot wax traveling through time space, her face. The desire to see and be seen.
Reoccurring drama, doubled up pain. I should have never asked her to sing, but there was always this crossover between wanting to make the music, getting laid and love. The Black hit of space, sucking everything.
This time I got closer to seeing the cover art than ever before, digging through the archives in the back room of a once and future record store. I should have just hired back up singers who could sing and wouldn’t care. Thrusting hips, tits, lips…
Powerful apocalyptic soul singers, end time rag huffing blues. Astounding. Another dimension, reached through tintinnabulations; voyeuristic intentions. 12 inches pressed clear against my face, shrink wrapped, warped.
I did it again. Last night, full moon April 2021, I almost made it out alive and almost got in and out of the studio on time.
© EschatonLife