In the Summer When All the Cars are Dying A Sheba in a corvette with a sip of Caramel Macchiato The sun whips your face to a fever, your fast car is like a slit wrist. A deflowering in smothering heat. All of the chants, the invisible halos the smashing engines to the Redwoods glass piercing the seagulls, she tumbles out, with arcadian neon ghost prints pushing at my spine. The mysteries, the rusting cars much like a rusting mind. And we live for the flashy wheels, in a painted death the letter has been sent to the bordello to commemorate the falling of feathers. Atlanta Dreamers Bottles upon bottles collecting in cars, on roofs with love for poisons flowing she dreams of her old Atlanta home. With bloody feet, running away from home it was nights eating gas station nachos by the river crying women heard all around like, the echoes forming a wall of sound muffled by Georgian Peach Trees. Her father was a Fulton County jailer with bologna sandwich and stolen addictions. He knew of all the murders and he let it eat at his brain. At nights he hit his bipolar extremities. Ripping the handles off the bathroom door Lost his only son, to the needle hidings in the suicide wars In a craftsman's bungalow, a stolen revolver, on a broken heart. So, we have to get back to Atlanta. She wants to eradicate the regurgitations, and remember the simplicity, of childhood swings and live in the swaying skylines. Phillip Eagles is in the Madhouse What do you say, when you have the plague? Life is moving faster than a kick to the face. Shining and belted to the bed sunlight burned his cheeks all of those who preyed on his golden locks, are now just falling every night on the streets, and in the parks. Poor old Phillip Eagles, on his muddy night, it marked his fate and they say "Phillip did it", While all the pit bulls growled in the moonlight. In the scene of Pandemonium, sleeping anger awoke out of the pillars, the city wanted blood, for all of the unfinished choruses. For the songs, they've never heard. Watching the beach fall apart, seceding waves bash against the locked-in walls Starfish, crabs walking through the macabre seas and sands on the cross, they start hammering in the nails, Sprinkle the oils on to burn the witch. On a humdrum manic sacred Sunday Phillip met the electricity of the demons That hunted on his energies, on his golden brain. 1970's Rock Stars with artwork from Rockshow Gimmicks My brother, I and two sisters lived in the heart of Mountain boys, whom praised the Lord and Merle Haggard. My brother and I were a little more on the rebellious side Idolizing the 1970's rock stars. I'd listen to Zeppelin, Bowie, Neil Young & Thin Lizzy. while my sisters tried to mimic Dolly Parton songs into their hairbrushes. Momma didn't really care to hear about music in Grays Arch She'd rather drink and sew with Aunt Dottie and my cousin Tonya. Dad, while he loved his Outlaw Country, He reserved most of his days drinking Bourbon and drag racing. Random bar cussing tirades, and gambling over baseball games. I'd often turn on the A.M. Radio in hopes of hearing Glam rock anthems. Hiding in the valleys, in the woods to practice losing my southern accent to that of David Bowie, or can you imagine? Imagine John Denver trying to sing Instant Karma like Lennon. I'm sure I was a joke, if anyone would have heard the squeals of imitations. But, in my head, and in the times that my brother would join me (when he wasn't fighting the school bullies in the park) we would become "the Who", and our audiences, were a family of squirrels scurrying up dying Oak Trees.
From David O’Nan: Tony has grown up around music his whole life. He grew up the son of a concert promoter (amongst other events) in Southern Indiana. He has many hobbies & interests including music & art, as well as molding young minds throughout the years. He’ll provide music history, reviews & artwork for the blog. I’ve known Tony for 17 years when we frequented the same coffeehouse.