Paige Johnson’s Reviews > Citrus Springs > Status Update

white commas lounging in our noses. Those are the dusty hammocks of cul-de-sac kids like us.

when the night’s as still and dark as an inkwell, I wanna lie belly-first on the open road, feel its crags kick into my ribcage and hipbones.

I forget when I’m quoting you or to unwind instead of rewinding the past until the tapes’ tracking degrades to a grainy blue.”

a bomb-strapped supermodel in your Imperial Bedroom, a luxe-jaded, secret-trading tabloid Informer.

bright-eyed Paul Allen and bristle-tailed Patrick, porn-lipped Lindsey Lohan and loud-cracking college kids,

you extinguish the burning cherry of your cigarette in the melting scoop of vanilla an assistant plated for us, unseen. nicotine-inked fingers find their way up my throat

This seems a funny stop on your book tour since Tampa is more likely to roll hash into the free pages of motel bibles than buy their own, but I suppose the content is flaming either way.

Whatever peels open the clouds, softens the growl of another day’s death rattle, the glare of another tomorrow morning.

the beats and lyrics will latch stronger to our souls once night breaks open like a pearl necklace on black marble, when we’re cocooned in some starchy motel sheets, our hands full of one another, and our eyes K-glazed. Ketamine our love language.

No intermission on the interstate, we sing street gospel & EDM eulogies,