I sold my soul years ago, and discovered souls go cheap. In a back road religion of the fast lane god, was the shepherd of strung out sheep. We worshiped blindly, but our church was rock, lived our prayers while our profits bled - All was spent for an ascent on wings of decibels, and other ways to get out of our heads. Our choir, hard- voiced screaming guitars, sang our praises home. From the metal clergy, to the acid saints. May they reign forever over our bones. “I will not sell out.” was o...

Zombie tune stays in my head, and I don’t feel the cold. An absinthe warmth, silver bullets, and a lonesome road is all I need this full moon night, and it’s all I have. This,and two wheels of British steel. My smile becomes a laugh (a joke I heard last century, told by a cherished ghost.) Approaching dawn at my back, my headlight at the coast, feeling mythical California. Feeling mythical California. What is said of California: The World. The World, it ends there.