Woke up on a raft of dreams floating through galleries where submarines submerged with Heroin nodding Gallerists down to the lower depths with bubbles and a bobbing buoy, leaving me alone in white walls. I walked out to find the B-1 bomber passing overhead and I said to the nearest ear, “I saw one of those crash once…. The escorting F-15 clipped it’s wing and it augured in like a brick drill bit.” And we turned up to watch the blue bomber turn and get clipped by an F-15 escort. It fell behind the trees with a fireball.
I saw a red box full of Yello L magazines and all the rain had stuck the previous week’s black issue over it and it looked so damn beautiful that I grew jealous of the rain and there was a dog panting in the heat and it made me think of Brion Gysin writing something not quite Arabic.
