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Licking the back of the Bufo Alvarius I can finally chew the Present while projects and reminiscences dissolve in the sizzling acid of guitar spirals forged by Hephaestus. A cacophony of sensations twists my unsteady guide.
Where am I?
In the stomach of a pantagruelian space-rock, tingling gastric juices corrode Time, and the psychedelic cyclicity of hyper-noise radiations horribly disfigures the line of the horizon.
The cigarette I bite between my lips burns quickly like a summer love, and raw, ruinous percussions beat in my head like a desperate love.
Through the windshield, I see clouds swollen with feedback where a yellowish light filters, foreboding an electromagnetic storm; the air is sultry, stasis is palpable, and unmistakable Sonic Youth discharges rumble.
Where will I be?
Overlapping coordinates fused in a psychic magma that paralyzes movements like an incandescent lava flow, and leaping sound shards burn the flesh like crazy lapilli spewed by volcanic eruptions.
I stop the car, get out, it's not over yet. I swallow the toad and, diving into the maze of perceptions, I await “Amen 29:15,” I await the final liturgy and dissolve Space under my tongue.
And then I finally see. A leaden otherworldly sea where a litany stretches and congeals, gives and takes, loses and gains; an apparent staticity where the sacredness of Popol Vuh is dissolved in the interstellar miasmas of Ash Ra Tempel, creating an orbicular sacredness worthy of the fixation of a God's eye.
Where have I been?
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