Homage to Jack
by Tim Young
Beat, man. Fucking big beat world, turning on a mad string following a sad sun
through the red neon
beer lights inside the snazzy jazz blowing like the holy storm right up my nose.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
And I drove that beast until the tires smoked and reminded me of the weed we
burned like the
incense and candles turned sweaty orange as they dripped on my face still
gleaming from the
cunt juice I so carefully drank, except what I spilled, an hour ago in the back seat
of the beat 47
Plymouth balling down the snow shrouded mountains tripping behind the holy
pool halls of Denver...