Chemical love surfaces point to everyone, everything, and all insane people. Not
the library with its barren illusory Surfaces, infinite in sacrifice; no,
heartbreakingly we dream, we
accelerate the heroism. Sure of song and faint of science, we are met only by
the Sun, the sensation, the universe. We experience
spoonfuls of cut zoo-like liquid hefted to drugstore bits and pieces and foamy
Mona Lisas. Reaching, untested
fluoride oozes towards
tons of births and
bloody mirrors laughing to
knives in faces and
rescued addicts looking for all that point of view. Snap down and
polish the hypothesis. Sensational brains! We prefer
those surfaces able to sing. Had we lifted
the duplicator of people like an
infinite view of infinity accelerating infinitely, our
universal heart illusions would've met love in
that crowded room beyond the
birth room of big bangs.
This has been a Dream of Music: (artist) The Flaming Lips / (record) The Soft Bulletin / (label) Warner