Whoa to the City of Angels, the place not bound by time, where the people buzz like the bees, why do you complicate my reverence?
The vast nation’s networks connect to earth’s Big Baby Blue, and the solitaire sky deity descends at dusk’s dim deeper rim, a day’s dive into these high rested ridges of Saint Gabriel’s brow.
So crank up the volume, prepare for the coy cluttered slow ride to the slippery stepped stoop at heaven’s hollowed harridan door, and think twice but don’t think once before you come knocking.
But how in the world does one enter without even a gaud gilded key? Godly gimcrackery or ungodly grace? If you tune to the high celestial circuit, slowly sip the holy honey from the billowed blossom, then someday someone sly might just tell you why, who and how.
Demi God of all or god’s demi of none? Somehow someway this place is just not so tightly wound by the hallowed hand that strikes the crimson clock, no stark stormy days cycling out then in, only the scolding gilded glare of god’s most precious son, day in, then day out.
Whoa to the City of Angels, the place not bound by time, where nearby the frail fiery poppies go full bloom, why do you complicate my reverence?
If you listen closely but not too closely, hear the shy sullen spirit’s sickly whisper, you will soon discover dreams and undreams, the bootlegged begotten treasures buried so blatant along the cedared crest of the West Hollywood Hills.
So crank up the volume, buckle up to the blessed bantered beats of the town’s most befallen blues bands, tune out just in time for the seafaring cloud-bearer’s jostling gentler migration to the vague valleys east.
Beware of the hour of decadent deceivers, who use the most mystifying malice of King Midas to conquer their vast private empires, hardly thinking once, but definitely not thinking twice about the many meager meandering souls locked to the lethargic limbo of endless bills.
Thesis or antithesis – false narrator here, digital god entity there. Somehow someway this place is just neither too calm nor too chaotic, always spiraling fast out of control yet slow into order. And from all that, may we cherish this measly magical moment before making due on our most sacred vow.
Whoa to the City of Angels, the place not bound by time, where the curious careening carnivals culminate for a cheap stealthy snapshot of fame’s favored frollicky fortune, why do you complicate my reverence?
The falling stars often walk with the delirious dreamers in this frivolous fringe of fantasy fraught and fiction flipped, but yet this nightly majestic maritime chill can cheaply charm any sad celibate sailor in swift search of vacant virgin land.
So crank up the volume, keep your tight grip on this loose third wheel, because this jittery joyous jazz is simply not meant to last – prepare one day for eager exile to some elusive Eden on the edge of eons eternal embers.
Do not dispute the smog’s systematic swelters and slumbers, but think only of temporary refuge to a random dawn’s divine desert oasis, where bushes brimming with bumbling bees will seduce some smiling settlers to shake nature’s most perfect harmonious hand.
So let’s forget clear fevered follies for feigned fame and finance, then seek blind intuitive inspiration so deep and sacred – find this tainted apple only among the youthful elders of born and unborn endless wayward wisdom, then let’s wallow within the evolving revolving waves of windy Santa Monica shores.
Whoa to the City of Angels, the place not bound by time, where diverse crowds could collectively gather amid the adorned auspices of the evening’s eminent existence, full of boundless binding big bangs and seamless seldom small silences.
Whoa to the angels, not bound by time. Only bound by fine red wine. Powerful. Permanent. Potent but not too omnipotent. Peaceful pillow talk for priceless pawns and kindred enemies. Pliable oppressive power for proud partners and envious lovers.
A pilgrimage to past and present paradox in future’s simultaneous tomorrows and forever yesterdays. The road to reverence, rocky and rough, rallies only souls in solitude, not bound by time, unwound and spellbound by twist tempos of tiresome tantric truths.
Lonely stars may never find youth’s tabloid fountain, but every brilliant sunset must end – and yet we tend not to mourn the inevitable, lost on finite versus infinite. Place not bound by time. Place out of time. Rejected into alpha yet embraced out of omega!
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