overheated distilleries moved absentee shins, penetrated infrasonic creameries of fire during divinity's effete, Battle-planed, plenitude and excremental, orotund fixating; an alcohol-island of Seagram-casement, condensed and burgeoning: unholiness-Fried kidskin.
This reminds me of the mood he was in when he said two things to me. One night at the Ritz New Years Eve with my girlfriend, Joan, he Karate Chopped me backstage and turned to her and said:
Get ridda HIM and WE'LL Make Looooove!
Second time at the House of Blues in New Orleans, he walked over to my chair apropos of nothing except amphetamine psychosis and pinned my black plastic glasses frame to my forehead with his finger and said:
I'm gonna bury YOU and them Buddy Holly glasses!