Skaters in the Wind

Absurdity if you know who you’re talking to…Hails coming off the mountain peaks, bails wrapped in time-freeze wickedness, ex-patriots still a mass sliming the heaven sent as the brains swells. Fail to see the look on faces or why the importance of the alley of steel flagpoles and Great Red woods—oh, that kind of STRIKE!!!!! Every word, a lean over just another edge in the teetering, burning car. What can be said to clarify the sheer audacity of the oncoming sla—AHHHHH!!! Whelp, while the wheels are spinning, welcome to the committee. Barkers at the moon, relishers in the lunatic fit, hot heads against the road rash, Zen types of radically imbalanced. Universal shit talkers, dares you to play back the tape, puller outers of its innards, and spreaders throughout the blaze. Vanishers before the badged banishers. Commuters through The Wild Yonders of colors only expressed in the shadows. Better-luck-next-timers breaking into the private parking lots. Lesser of two evils amongst the hall of meat saints, fainters at the sentencing, leaders of the orchestral clatter somewhere out sick in the wrong cityscapes. Lovers of all, none, and ‘how the hell they do that’s?’ harbingers of hill bomb affections, Zoom!!! Lesson learners the concrete way, then rest in traffic or thinking lower than the devil’s bed. ‘Runners in a pinchers,’ punchers after the slap. Dapper of the most chaotic fields, tokken sinners in the lush decorum, gravity rule benders, ‘FUCK YOU, PUNKS’ return to senders. Redder than the blush, disgusting as perpetually expired anything skidded on the sidewalk, dire straits for kinkless rails like you’re going down on a mountain pass. Setters of the tone. Clever bosses inside the restricted zones. Violet-er sort of lusters, reading through false flags of every FUBARed gathering before street lights are nothing but shade. Faders from the commonwealth in protest of anyone’s anything. Bringers of the Death Wishers, Bakers, and Stereos to Flip pressure cracks in the side talk that gets the crowds into echoing snaps at the mosh pit. Readers in the forbidden Tibetan hills, aloud to the Yeti’s kin, goodnight, and no one needs to lose an arm. Attackers of the silence, violence witnessers from inside the cage, always by the second round of the ground and pound. Writers of the Mystical Leaks in Space-Time Fabric without the Softener. (sorry kid.) Scripters like prophecies appear on skinned knees. Kinder in the trenches, bench sitters counting seconds until the ban is up. Wrenchers for the fuck of it, completers of sections in ways that stump the Bermuda tetrahedron. Angerer of those itchy trigger fingers, danger wrapped in physics lessons, the ones with the kind of danger on our dashboards that has you counting the miles. Grippers without the tape, wolves dancing around the witch’s brew…be damn the morning plate of crepes. Wack rappers on fire on the parking level with the flailing live wires. Welcome one and all to where the Zoo meets the Streets.