empty stairwells and consumed tunnels.
Waiting for the slow train; quiet it comes.
Alone on this motion--why so solemn?
Chrome stars and silver tears just shine.
"I is another"--you is my other.
"I is some one else"--you is my else.
I once was young--going, gone, going again.
Eyes are fountains, as I've said, so why contaminate the water?
Guitar capos and feather coats disintegrate seamlessly.
Christmas cards from this place, why?--is the good so mortal?
Multiverses and assumptionists and so forth give questions to answers we'd rather not ask ourselves.
Saxophones are akin to steel blades for they pierce Humanity--don't they?
Can't we--why am I speaking?--just get it right?
Phones and emachines--depending on where you're from--can have very different definitions.
Carl Sagan, why are there no statues to this man?
This man of greatness--and freewheeling credentials--deserves a holiday.
Flint axes and cinema tickets coalesce into Casablanca.
Lead--the stuff of Roman lore--tastes good with a bit of mercury on the side, sprinkled with some plutonium on top.
we shall walk, so why not sleep awhile?
You're not hoping for a ride like Kerouac--the Lawrence of America--
get a life and don't get screwed.
"Remember Bob--no fear--no envy--and no meanness."
Diamonds in dusk shine like crazy galaxies for the hitchhikers.
Ve veri Veniversum vivus vici.
By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the Universe.
So, tell me, why dost thou runnest hither?
Dost thee have some query to whom you inquire me to ponder?
Dollars and cigars smoke in the twilight of some distant Mexican revolution--like a texan "Barbecue"
dear boy--do you wanna fly?--i can show you how to fly--so you digg me?
ah! yes! yass! digg him, digg how he walks, digg how he talks! yass!
snakes eat the mice--the mice and men.
mandingo dies in the boiling pot--victim from genocide--damn you, andrew jackson--some american hero you are!
Robert Johnson is more important than carl marx and chaplin and obaaaaaaaaaama all rolled into one--Johnson, wish you were here.
they who are artistic all have seven things in common: one--we see the world the same. two--we live and die the same way. three--we will always be remembered sometime. four and five--we never conform and we are always alone. six--we all end up either dead by 27 or never to die at all (like Chuck Berry). seven--we can tell if someone is an artist within 5 minutes of meeting them.
ah, man, that is slick as a fiddle.
I don't remember what they told you, don't know what you know,
but everybody knows there ain't no leaders when there's a path to follow.
grey Sun and red fields--why red?
Yellow flowers splashed with yellow stars--or so they seem.
Then, yellow eyes and yellow masks, yellow bananas and yellow harmonicas, and yellow leaves and yellow things.
Why yellow?--horrid infidels claim to be bona-fide Believers and fans of murph the snurf an forth.
Weathermen tell you which way the wind blows and I got them gravestone blues, them gravestone blues, and I got them gravestone blues, I got them gravestone blues, Lord I'm a-goin' where I've never been before.
© Copyright 2009 Keegan (UN: gankee-con at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Keegan has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|Log In To Leave Feedback|