brian anthony hardie. Record Store
By: Brian Anthony Hardie Historically, trends tread softly blazed trails tied to my cell bed that are tightened nightly around my wrists and head, blanketing the sandy intersection of morality, ever so noisy are the echoes from fellows pre-cursing populated eyes dilating redialed lost sanctioned cells of her telephone in the middle of a fight. Now, the story musters up to generate musty fractured empty threats from lost friends, the forecast electrically inverting my social trend. Toxins in my vanity pilot the black speeding eyes of every thought served in authentic decorated to-go boxes to be chosen between shallow passive glances exchanged aggressively, filtering universal boundaries during our late night search for upper-class clout determining how experience should enter the picture. Privately publicized research transports every thought zoo back to earth, the moon’s appearance takes a seat on the MAX tracks of the well trained occurring possibilities, need I mention how compelled the tribe’s chief became? Puffing his mind through cleansing clearance classically blaming his previous ass whooping. Circles of the fifth octave bridge together tonight’s last call for self-diminishing large-mouth bass chords as they walk across the bridge’s heavy chugga-chugga stiff riff, ripping and rocking it while busting out a metal windmill with this hair and broken neck spinning the performance in aesthetics perfect circle.
8