Crystal Meth Mountain Falls –

Crystal Meth Mountain Falls.
Living on the dry side, the inside walls of a long running waterfall.
No TV, watch ecology and a living force of dry brown rats, those wet rats for a while before they rent room here.
I’m the unknown ‘me’ lying down in a rock hammock with a long stammering grey beard in a rumbling space behind a hiker’s point of interest on a trek to somewhere else.
Many days of long days, but I can kill daytime’s time, see beyond water drops, rat’s whiskers and forever drying laundry.
Get up from a dug pit, paint my town, my caveman walls, with alien figures, UFO’s, horses impersonating giraffes, it’s all there, blueish-purple shaping from a paste of waterfall water, excrement, berries, on the end of a beard clippings brush.
Rat meat is tougher when tooth decay more than the city dwelling usual, and you can’t get a dinner reservation with post-traumatic stress disorder disorders from past-times of ammo depletion in a fox hole with a psychic drug cocktail and furious fear; Out and running! Looking for a Black Hole!
My artwork on this geology be-gets fungus, an evolution in cannibalism, but hikers are lean meat, but canoeists carry more supplies, more muscle from keen oars-man-ship.
Before cave, there was TV, loved ‘Kung-Fu’, and now I’m Carradine the Hungry ‘Grasshopper’ with a thick naked neck and feat beating down moss rock slopes onto a chosen Boat People.
Crystal Meth Mountain Falls.

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