A little breeze came. And went. And it came and went. Then It came and went again. And again And again And again. But, The day was smokin hot. And it’s a breeze, right?
And I’m a Colorado boy at heart,
All the damn day long. Not born; but raised. And mountain tops they Should be praised.
But those beach boy Tunes—they slay me man: Gettin paid and stayin tan— Glass of moondust in my hand—
And those backbeat vibes? They won’t unpack:
Come ride the woeful curl of jade— Miss Lady Luck’s got throws to save—
Crest the ocean-burl and toss— You’re pure-white pearls On a pirate’s grave—
—— (c)2022 by Sanguine Woods. All rights reserved.
Songwriters: David Martin / Richard Boardman / Alessandro Lindblad / Philip John Plested / Nicholas Gale / Pablo Bowman / Everett Ryan Romano / Marshmello / Will Vaughan / David C Martin / Geoff Morroe
This playlist is very much like coming home for the first time waits for no one turn turn turn map after endless fucking map— bitch map, bastard son—deliberate as fuck, never even heard of the goddam G-spot or Ventura Highway sunshine on my shoulders—jet planes leaving high above us every second clouds from both sides now closing in California wet dream—and the sky is no longer grey but tinsel color and you beat-off—on a dark desert highway—rain on 1965 glass one wiperblade and a prayer fucking exit to Todos Santos hard as woodstock for your sister’s golden hair— daughter of the devil himself an angel in white— tied up in a hotel basement (such a lovely face) such a lovely place ready a room for the grateful dead and Casey Jones—don’t be a prick I bought that cocaine and a ticket to an aeroplane— one foot stuck in 1967 like a wasted fuck wilted flowers in her sunset hair—these things I forgot to do for you— and I had a lover once— his long middle finger teasing Joplin to come out today and put the rain away and that music starts to play—and oh What’s that you say? Mrs Robinson? Jesus loves you more than you could know… whoa whoa whoa
When someone asks you Do you have any heros? And you are about to say No. Because you don’t. You never have. And you’ve never gone deep on that point. But the truth is you haven’t been an easy person to understand, by your own self, let alone by others. You think no one could know your crazy heart, not because it’s complicated, just the opposite, in fact. A little anachronistic for sure. You don’t want anyone in that space. A hero? Maybe some runner ups. Faces of free spirits float in and out of your mind. People who would know why you can’t just belong to someone, something….when you belong to everything else. It would have to be someone you would like to meet, sync with, save from being gone too soon…someone you would be proud being and being with. Then it hits you. And you’d never even thought of it before that moment.
Gypsy steal my heart.
Sing my soul, hippie queen.
Lose the shoes; live your blues.
And why not, Mama?
“…and I’ll be yours, until the rivers all run dry. Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme. In other words…”