This here giraffe

Or, clouds taste metallic today.

I am Wayne Coyne. You have been deceived, I have been deceived, he has been deceived. I’m glad we all now know. I am dramatic, cracked and bloody. I bang gongs. I save planets. Together we are excited but nervous and simultaneously a little Madame Curie sliced with Bettie Page in our blazing puckers. Let us dress like animals and never have neck pain again.

Flanked with fortuity, souped up in synchronicity, alliteration threatens me to use it whorishly. I do. What else is there. The Magus in the book has trickled out from the page and into my bedroom, my blood and walks knee-high in my boots with me, promising that I’ve been deceived all my life. The magician is the god is the magician on each beach. I believe him. Everything at once is open and vertigo thrives between bald and ripe roses in morphing sky. I am Wayne Coyne.