The Night Of The Moth

The black Mercedeses followed each other compactly up the minuscule mountain roads, like a long black snake trying to flee its own tail hunted by the burning sun. 4000 feet below them there was still a war on the beaches of Normandy, my war. I brought it there and even though I didn’t like it any more than I liked Henry Rollins singing in Black Flag it kinda put things in perspective. A shiny glimpse of a circular past illuminated my graveled expectations; instead of unity I felt isolation.

The French Riviera is magnificent in May she said from behind her outsized Gucci eyewear as the Lamborghinis passed outside the restaurant where a bottle of wine costs more than all the clothes on my body, but sometimes it’s not about the money. Reflections in tinted Bentley windows portraying palm tree parades leading up to The Carlton Hotel, the sun sets leisurely over the jewelry drenched haciendas as the murderer met her at the Viper Room, 5 hours left until she met her doom, blood tastes better if you had a pulse he mumbled, the ghost of River Phoenix and a bag of blow can’t save you now. The bottles piled up between my feet as my spirit fell from grace.

Rewind my soul right here on the beach, through moonlit skies, foliage symphonies and breaking waves, the bloody red shorelines are whispering my name. The night of the moth raises the divine wings of dawn or was it the other way around?

Jesus Christ I love being drunk and I really love Buco windshields, specially the small Cushman model without the headlight cutout at the bottom, the same model used on Indian Chiefs and the four cylinder models. Buco did these windshields in several sizes and colors so to find a color matched 21” X 22” sure was a bloody poetic experience.