The Unknown: The Red Line.
  Bing bang boob baby and smokestacks yeah as we drive down the wide street this cat is blowing this sax there and the music is like zen steeped in boiling fog and me and Scott and Dirk are three dilated eyeballs soaking in the benzedrine gin, floating in glasses like orange shapes the cigarette sketches out the details of against the night. Scott needs a drink and I feel a poem coming on and a slow train is like the clicking of a piano and in this jazz lounge we run into Frank by accident. This cosmic coincidence has completed the trilogy of reason and hare rama hare hare wow zippety do dah day. Then Frank runs out on the street like Groucho Marx smoking a hooter and batting his eyelashes crazily at passersby of the night. There is a star in the sky that has burned through eternity and a wave of delirium tremens flows over me like a wave of colonial invaders over a peaceful continent, Christianizing my cells and taxing them we go puddling through Mountain driving baby see city lights yeah see gargantuan airports no oh frontierymeweewee pudda ludda bodda buddha bing bang boom.  

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