By our resident writer of surrealism, Eric Lastick
EAGLE SOUND STRUM: Peyote buttons…desert high. Monies of the gold you run—through lucid dreams…soulful battles of wretch and whistles. Native Indian scenery on a hit sandy say. Hot gifts from the prophets now look dead on. Not a myth! Witchy Woman align with parts and figures of “The Umbra” & it’s lunar styled shadowy days. Iron on the bloods of the Shamans. The mythifiers. The inner lobe opens to the wides—-sculpted as art on these desert sands. Cold and dark the spirit of the enlightens, as Lucifer’ the lonely…and his headed stove—-out on the high drives of secular poles. Angles as one shifts. High and dry thirsts of the forgotten…the tune play on in cool waters, non-exists. Buzz song in the chugs of the all nighters. fake lake you swim with all your rested laurels—until the wave of dry tide bright you back. Handsome hides and fallen to the seas of leagues under a wishful of hand crafted lead guitars…and inspirited sky. Cactus flow the needles in and out of one’s harmful trippy mind. Time to come home, Ol’ warriors of the rock beats. A Witch doctor’s potion clears air for the early arrives of the next studio album…as the Witchy woman is ”All ready gone!’
EAGLE CRUSHING IN THE FAST LANES: Great is the song of bridged and over-lasts to the truths…and the burning of the candle at it’s very evenly ends—too a hard fall! The fast track is great for racing. The left lane is for passing, yet comes with extra built speed—which often the taking of law as far as one can…and sometimes past the Limit. Girl watchers salient reprise…get the prize—when the music plays… and you know it’s time to reach for ” One Of These Nights” Crazy old ones…as few can attain a fast lane without pain & burnout. Yet remember when she was pretty. “Terminally pretty, as Don, the drummer whom boldly tapped of the eagle sound strum; the rage & the race is on. Yet the players developed engine trouble. The heart was there…not the movements…the stage. The place of the dance was laying down to sleep; until ”Rumple, Rumpelstiltskin arrived at the homecoming. Babe’s tried to brush her hair with saggy arms… hide all mirrors! Guru is left leaning on their wages in the fogs… come and gone. Holy man leaves the California suit in uncommitted and uncommon anger. Life in the fast lane turns as life in the no lane…as we will see you two on the other side of Saturday, without heart in it. Yet Don will still handle a drum kit. A snare and stroll on Jo’s guitar. Next stop, as the eagle has landed. A reunion. One can only hope the faster lanes can at least sit up…and take a little soup. The heavy of the horse and low running engines may be on a misfire? Though who’s to know, except under the spell of a Witchy Woman…reprise—-and her wind dust-fist-ed broom, seizing to long out in the sun; as the align’ of ”the take together moon” reveals the very next steps to the famous ”Hotel California!”
THE ARRIVAL AT HOTEL CALIFORNIA: Seated so high on the hill and reaching new levels of counterculture’s indulgences and free love…a future actual Time Traveler string-on-a-worm off a cosmic Witch’s pole—faster than the speed of light; as a latter day Astronaut of sorts has taken heed of an Eagle sound-strum. Space he claim…though steered off course in the range of 200 yrs on a backtrack, where bare bones and human frailty mixes of a cocktail of cast a spell of spoiled technology to enter the real Hotel California (1977) Lock-in log entry date…and palm tree brought of dreams! Aligned and stopped dead in it’s astral tracks. Man in time. Astronaut of human form, set right in the center line of a welcoming of 2 moving rolling gates…and to the sights and sounds of very voluptuous decadent tribes of various life goers—as right there, a single sole man of immediate travels, attempts of making way back home (2177) Although, he finds himself on the grounds of sunny Southern California two hundred years in reverse course at an inadvertent and grade (A) Hotel, no less, yet an extraordinary strange forwardness of the waves of sun bathers…swimming arms…belly flops—and the looks and loud of fastback cars. Blue raise and Sting Rays. High tall waters flow—too everyone’s eventful finds of it’s drunk fountains…youthful gallery…picturesque celebratory stay. As once you cross the drawing line, the high climb diving boards—headlong and aspiring; there is no getting back…and no way of leaving!
A strange pair of eyes now watches you. Not quite human…and not quite right—as it’s mad methods begin to suck and draw you in. Sign and form at entry. Fun filled in the forever, but an ultimate price to pay! The time traveler has finally made it’s weight in gold—–right at the moment of a total eclipse of the sun! The Witchy woman in headdress of black wig—stir with the winds…the multiverse spin of a cone. ”The Umbra” and it’s lunar styled shadowy workings of the totality so depraved and basking in it! She spells of it’s eternity of tarnish and erosion. The stems of Hollywood’s branches. Founded of it’s scream. Time traveler and Man of the future, now of indecision—bounces off the maps of change…of his desires, his pleasures, as young girl run. Wet towel he slides. Waiter toss their trays—skimming just under his chin, until an alcohol hot heated cocktail makes a head first run at him. An adverse thought not so wise—tossed right into the entry ring of incalculable hot lust—drawn down upon a seemly crackpot in a strange futuristic space suit—during broad daylight…and to the every inbetweens of a sensuous bikini dressed fun. He, the space traveler has cramped all decadent restored—clear off the boards. Yet still, the old rule of: ”You can never leave” still applies…as he is chased by 2 Gargoyle toughs—too the throws of their ever gilded dungeons! There, he stay in the forever chains. On and on with like minded mal-contents…party poopers…and the repeats of the rift of proper’s; as now, all days dark the same in ”the umbra” All of the nights are pitched like tents of unseating stars; as an all night guard struck a match in what does forever. Time traveler sits lock and key in the dirges of every good man’s hellish dream. He thought of the Hotel as a myth. a long standing great Spanish guitar and electric jam. A Hotel California of century’s ago? But not the fear of the sounds above his dwelling of a permanent summer vacation fun? A place of his heightened-thought…and imagined he presumed to know? Still he is a study of the Eagle song. Hotel California wedged in his mind. Now he realizes that you can check out but you can never leave. Yet he is in the bad graces of such an evil power. He knows it is time for him to try and flee…however can he? This is the nightmare that all those whom put themselves in harms way must face. So out of sheer adrenaline he bends and twists his shackled wrists…and places his finger to the attached dial of his space suit…and in a flash, after setting it forward—-as all systems are go—–he clears his way; and right on back too the future. Or at least he thought so? Although he has reached earth’s grounds…and just outside the compound…though still in the year 1977! The Eagles and their sound strums can be heard all across the compound. Hotel California plays with great will and ease.
