Yeasty

Things haven’t been exactly yeasty, I said.

You mean easy? 

Listen, I’m going through a sloughing. I remit what I can’t desist, I said.

She played the intro to the TV show Lost in Space on her detuned Farfisa. I didn’t know how she managed to get an organ detuned, but here was the theme all wonky and skronky overtaking my patience.

Shut that shit up, I screamed. You’re out of order, the whole trial is out of order, they’re out of order—

Danger Will Robinson! Pacino did it better, she said. She padded off to make a steep of magic mushroom tea. She whistled some Grateful Dead dirge that seriously rankled and intensified my dour mood.

Shut that up, too!

Fuck off, she said, and went out into the garden.

Now I had to figure out how to untie myself from these complicated leather bindings. Where were the others? Were there others left? Where was I? So much to sort out in this Gordian knot existence. 

I sense what you’re doing, she hollered from the garden. You can’t get out of those. You might as well rest and save your energy. You’re gonna need it. 

Damnation. Insensate. Harpy.

Mere minutes ago—Bliss. I was dreaming I was swimming in the mud of a thousand earthquake liquefactions—viscous landslides orgasmic. All my friends were there breast stroking with me. We were racing toward the edge of the world. All of us wanted to be the first to fall and float off into the void. We had to leave this planet. 

What I’m Listening To:

You said, it’s time to get your clothes on
And you said, it’s time to leave the planet
And you said, don’t even bring your wallet
And you said, it’s time to leave the planet
You said that I could bring my guitar

— Galaxie 500 / “Leave the Planet”