gingatao

I’m riding

a slow horse out of a dead town, Jim. Sun’s always setting somewhere, he says to me, in passing. I am sitting chewing, yep, somewhere you just know there’s a starving mongrel licking itself, old copies of illustrated poetry chapbooks by hiptalking New Yorkers discussing metaphysics through pop culture drift by like spinifex in a spirax notebook while mulitcoloured creatures twitter in their wings waiting their turn, some English manor house with a governess in sleeves and cap then wicked spirit from down the mountain comes, fuck Hemingway says Sir Ian give me Prospero or De Sade sipping his third martini under a parasol, Mamu, tell someone to bring the car, The Pink Cadillac, I feel like riding on the freeway,