
Something I put together to help promote my buddy Colson's new project: an awesome '80s synthpop album he's doing with the Aussie GryphAU. Their Kickstarter is going well, but they still need a little more!
Would you consider helping out?
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/.....-hit/x/8023979
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You wake up on a beach under a pink dawn, or dusk, who can tell.
The gulls don’t care, the creeps and the lizards, the strangers all down and out and under, all dancing on the ceiling of your mind.
The warm waves are perverts, licking at your heels, white foam on your toes. White powder on your sleeves. Your shoes — did they lose you? Check your watch, it’s time to rise.
The beach bucks like a bull when you stand, head full of sand, steady on the shoulder-pads, shake your tail and you’re good to go.
You hear the sound.
Not the ocean, not the medium, the liquid crystal carrier waves that amp the signal west and east and west again, the neon light off a chrome globe.
You hear the sound.
The beat of a stone-age space-man, the harmonies of electric angels wrapped in spandex all singing, close your eyes, feel them singing.
Silver filaments streaming frictionless down copper nerves, surging into space and bouncing off the sky, making love to sythesize the future.
You follow it, of course you do.
Warm asphalt, steel cars streak red and white, you’re the prism in the laser-show. Closer, prowling, a school of sharks, all of us, we hear the sound and we gotta hear more.
It’s ringing.
Pick it up, you know who’s calling. The angels, the space-men, they’re calling. Pick it up and dial…
Pacific Hotline.
Would you consider helping out?
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/.....-hit/x/8023979
======
You wake up on a beach under a pink dawn, or dusk, who can tell.
The gulls don’t care, the creeps and the lizards, the strangers all down and out and under, all dancing on the ceiling of your mind.
The warm waves are perverts, licking at your heels, white foam on your toes. White powder on your sleeves. Your shoes — did they lose you? Check your watch, it’s time to rise.
The beach bucks like a bull when you stand, head full of sand, steady on the shoulder-pads, shake your tail and you’re good to go.
You hear the sound.
Not the ocean, not the medium, the liquid crystal carrier waves that amp the signal west and east and west again, the neon light off a chrome globe.
You hear the sound.
The beat of a stone-age space-man, the harmonies of electric angels wrapped in spandex all singing, close your eyes, feel them singing.
Silver filaments streaming frictionless down copper nerves, surging into space and bouncing off the sky, making love to sythesize the future.
You follow it, of course you do.
Warm asphalt, steel cars streak red and white, you’re the prism in the laser-show. Closer, prowling, a school of sharks, all of us, we hear the sound and we gotta hear more.
It’s ringing.
Pick it up, you know who’s calling. The angels, the space-men, they’re calling. Pick it up and dial…
Pacific Hotline.
Category Music / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 80px
File Size 1.6 MB
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