Saturday night jukebox

Jukebox big o on saturday night jukebox the wireless warbling burbling a sweet desertion above the hiss of greasy fry a floury knead of pizza wheeling awkward waxing outside a rank of gloomy farm utes wide-eyed gazing down a rainy main street only a lonely hound dog howling crooning a primal lovelust upwards towards a doughy round of moon.

Oneiric Of course, you know little of the fact that — by night — I don a mask and moonlight, alternately, as a prince and beggar. And on other nights, as a Bengal tiger with flames in place of claws. You do not see me firstly as pure animal, then as pure machine. The words alone — and the words must be alone — are themselves the pearl of great price. And I have made ready to sell all my belongings, to set out into the field to dig the night. Of course, you know little of the thousand dark, wind-riven nights on which I was alone — bruised, blundering through the field. Blundering, and yet gentle with the grasses, folding each leaf down with measured caution. Of course, you cannot know this — you may only follow with telltale footsteps through the darkness, unearthing reams where you pass, where you fold them down again. This is the dream. And the dream from which you will waken. I will become pure machine: lit from within by oil — golden oil, oil of night. I will powder the field for treasure, forgetting — perhaps — that the field itself is priceless — the mother of all pearls. I will blunder and yet be gentle, and yet raise it up into darkness on flaming claws.