Ride the Gravy Train.
(Ref to Have a Cigar, lyrics by Roger Waters, from Whish You Were
Here by the Pink Floyds, 1975)
Kafka said that writing was like making peace with death.
JPSartre writes that god is silence,
while in another movie the musician says that god talks.
music is for the dead...he says.
i say, i have no clue, and i am just fine being an idiot...
A Crowley said he wrote gibberish cause he couldnt hold a real job,
and listening to Ozzie sing supported his habit just fine.
PKDick, said he promesses never to write another book yet,
he'd start again after each line, even after a Zebra some called
Valis came in on a lighting ship.
Freud made holes in his nose as he told you bout your holes in his
head,
WSBurroughs sucked on his own marrow, with an ink injected needle
shooting it back into the night owls.
TLeary cut up his head so that the planets could make a pickle out
of it.
all those poets said something
something even sounded pretty at times
even meaningfull and beauty filled
when really they were lost.
i just say that i like to play
pass the mustard
and Ride the Gravy Train...
Cinquo de Maya, a stranger's view.
Reminiscense of old pagan rituals,
they are taught/invent rites,
adapting old forms to now containers,
taiming and bleaching out the Ancient drunken, smoken,
hallucinogenic DNA fuck fest that made this life.
Old orgiastic times aseptizised,
packaged in.
A myriad of pshychedelic flower,
glitters, turned into hair clip for girls.
They shine of synthesized egotrips.
Down to the twine,
what is seen with wild a thousand times richer,
for they are,
make accomodations and synchronized (?)
Dog town they call it.
Babbling scholars.
Zoos filled with neuro-KAOTIC activity
zoes storm a pack while the rancheros eat marry.
Put all the women drunk in a box,
and hop on what falls along your way,
why don't you taste the Mexican way.
(This is not a sparodic moment)
Middle of night church bells
ring with birds symphonies,
old ladies remember a past that never was,
though sing what will
strings (?) they never be.
