Motorama — Livestream / Noonchorus. September 22, 2020

Man In A Shed - A song that reminds me of my buddy, Curtis Caughorn, who lived for a time in a shed

' Cello Song - Nick Drake

Three Hours - Nick Drake

River Man - The Stunning Harmony of Nick Drake

Pixies - All I Think About Now

Where's the Fuck is Marrowbone, KY,

she splained that you had to go across Kentucky Clinch to where they have always cooked their food with too much vinegar. Them. There the fuck you might find it.

Gonna Die Alone - Seems peaceful and quiet to me. Quite Naturally the way to check out when my body finally folds up

Took Winston Churchill's Black Dog for a Walk on Sunday. It Got Out on Tuesday.

Or maybe it took me for a walk. Understand that when we take each other out, which is fortunately a rare thing, we usually have to avoid the venue for a long time afterward on account of socially unacceptable performances we delivered. Unless, of course, when we can't. The good news is that, despite the dog slipping his lead yesterday as I was working at the Justice Center, I didn't slap the genuine fuck out anyone.

While it lasts - The Day at the Beach

Stray beach dogs at the beach chasing frisbees into the sea because they are basically stupid minions that bite children. The royal beach. Rhymes most appropriately with bleach. Beach wraps around the colonies within continental rims. The beach is made of gentle glass and the millenia of the wear of time. But, gentle on the feet. Angular. Better walk back the way I came in order to maintain angular justice to keep my body from imbalance and preserve equanimity of the hipwork. The beach, a staging area. There are black beaches at the Blackpool beach. I'll never see the beach again. The beach is the foamy welcome mat to the high seas. The smell of the air that soaks the beach and then shares the smell with my face without fee. The communal beach. My balls at the beach. Beach pussy. The beach has this beautiful way of settling my libido to sit it out, so to speak. My sandy balls at the beach. The three of us at the beach. Bellies at the beach. The truth comes out at the beach. Chalky oily Appalachians at Myrtle the beach. My member at the beach. Beach penis. Tucked in. Old balls at the beach. Old beach balls. That fishy smell of the beach matches that fishy smell away from the beach. That fishy smell wafting in the mountains. The sound of children at beach time. Fewer women wear watches anymore, especially so on the beach. Replaces by rectangles under umbrellas in the hands of noisy women and noiser kids at the beach that tell time, too. Beachy sand palms at the beach. Sandy black radiating rectangles. Towels. Sunglasses. Oil. Assholes pleading to be taken into the salty sea that the beach buffets. A young boy dug a hole in the beach at Buxton. His last act. At the beach. While frisbees cut through the thick air at Avon. Beach pits. Arm pits. Feet. Two by two times ten toes at the beach front. Beaches bloody beaches absorb those human invasions likes sponges. We then become the beach. I'm at Avon for the balance. At Buxton. At Okrakoe. At that island near Charles town. Where there was no beach. Just ocean and exposed rootworks abruptly into the Atlantic. Where I started puttin things together, fully clothed under the water at Hunting Island that has no beach, where dogs can't shit.