NOMAD OF THE SOLITARY SUNSET

An introductory outline of an original outlaw motorcycle club … by Eric Lastick

Intrigue and encounter, if so bold, with mayhap to that highway…southern California leather riders…Mojave hot sands—and rough baked-on tattoos shoulder vested to every hardened road…and pirate band accomplishments . Rides and riddles of the fine tokes of home-grown actions. Chains and ugly smiles…say of reactive miles. The bare minimum drive of anything less than freedom. Passion this motorbike and of it’s feel for the-roads. A sense of being alive. Club chapter’s—style their sights to the highest honours. The rugged cut and holds of embroidered #13…and rightly follow to it’s inception of this original disgruntled road bandit, now on a west wind excursion run, going northbound, the Oregon sails—yet of no long lost too his brothers (brethren) Just taken what he needs; if only a mama sail-cat,,,and in the motion of the motorbike, as far as the lawlessness will allow. Relinquish with no tames.

(Storyline) NOMAD’S HOARDS…of a solitary sunset. Motorcycle on the strengths of the highway—moves…as lone rider rapid spans from town to town. Rough leather as a nomad albatross on a single run. Mood,mode…and cloud cover in the-daylight daydream reserve. Hiawatha tobacco lulls…song long sober, as the lone wolf sits— sets fast as one. High gear, as his body stay in the very motions of the roads. Nomad ole’ pack run it’s rides in the late day flash—too the ties of how time flies. Motorbike revs as he wolf decree—his long hair hang-in down…moustache lengths the silver streak handlebars off the glare of the sun. Rip tide winds of yesterday’s themes and arms…calls of disasters in full pack deep seated solitary sodden—while setting motorcycle with the sprawls of the winds, and of these currents of it’s owns. To that of altitude…and of attitude.

Now go this nomad—as a free flow of the ride—yet motorcycle heavy of his old biker club. Wolf-pack lay-off…and sway so long away—with tooth dusted path of one lone rider. ”Could the pres of this club, in rightful scold—send this member to the drowns of lower receives? Likened of  clay based ultimate, in corridors where the ancients means to an end. All that was?” Trespass and all hates, fears…and now a nomad lathe on a tray—and right too the runaway highways. There, visions jumping jacks” past old school yard days—rightful the kid in him. Now, in the unknown loans—-and straight into the fury, and off every beat, too the turns, specs and spats. Still he keeps of the patch…and it’s cut, expect another place…another club—yet all in it’s same owns. For now, his amorous club of hunting wills…motion sickness clear this single body of vacant rescue forgone, as other than all the flack and disproportionate—while lifted and thrown of it’s stripped and stripes—-too the fodders of all highways—-off and all alone. ”And what often fateful wisdom…sleeps over it, as the grunt curtails in a depth of mind’s fire. Nomad sees of a gift—right in his inner lobe path. Ash no shame, his burnt of a cigarette…to a GAS AND GO…shopping sight. There, so spellbound, standing on 2 moist moccasins and beaded long frills, is a native American girl…so long and lean—as a gas station attendant with an attached smile like riches…Indian ways that flourish in the cool winds of new justices. Silky long straight black hair—with her double fixed on smile, as she stares to a handful of toasted smiles. Hot of the sun. The finds of trust in a stranger…yet somehow no stranger. They instantly fall together of teas and journeys in the nightfall as one. Nomad finds his new subset equal of 1 “Hop on, he says. A long ride back home.