Underground Candy

Part 1

Saturday nights are made for fighting, says Elton John, in his song.

In ever vibrant neon and lights of Vegas, it's made like pheromone pulsing electricity that pulls like a magnet, hot in the blood. Saturday nights are when the rivers of fevered faces, new this skyline, showering seduction, follow and flow down to the next fixation. It is when carelessness and caution share an intersection, having plenty of hastened foggy eyed, blind of mind to play with; hide out and seek the lost, games of chances to catch cooties crabs or Cush (not everything that happens here stays here). The night is veiled in summer's chiffon starlight, clear and fine...

Saturday nights here are simply just that fine, to be simply made deep as wine. We shape the night to the curves of welcoming lovers, or paint it acid disco dancing streaks trip-hop. Intentional walks on broken glass, down town alley cat knows...

We are invincible, out the sunroof of limousines, for just one moment - the boulevard is wonderland, we are flying down fluorescent flashy rabbit holes. Wind like feathers on our skin through our hair, as we follow the city's maze, glint and glass from shiny windows advertising peeps how and Elvis. There are no sad hues here, only hot and metallic brilliance, Technicolored streets where Saturday night navigates to oblivion -- for one moment feeling lost is remiss. Life is flying through breathing paintings of one's own wormhole, cubed...

Tonight the walls are removed, we truly live and rush to truly know freedom, scent of underground candy on our wings, in our lungs, and our very being sings and dance. Saturday nights are not made for fighting, it is our underground candy, our skin. If for one night invincible and fearless of the dark concrete seas -- this city of heat and mannequin loves...

Follow yellow brick roads, all Cheshire smiles in mist, if only having one evening free to finally be, to taste what it's like : life in flight upon infinite wings, a oneness with everything, in our pulse the universe sings.

Saturday nights are made for these primal potions to open what we've held closed, eyes wide asleep, blind and sleepwalking, chained like prisoners to a system that is broken--our minds slaves beaten to conditioning of lies. All we know is doubt, assumptions and fear, but tonight we are wonderland, a universe at our heels, awake forever, forlorn and forgotten never...

Welcome to the underground.............