A better place might not exist

The stories of a tripping man may blend better with whiskey on rocks and some good tobacco

While The Sun is sitting on the docks and your eye admires a dancing shadow on the porch  

Near by the sea, where every heart is torched by fire bird armies in a cheap-ass hotel.

Out there it’s said there is a cell where unheard thoughts emerge in freedom cartels

The story pusher tells it so!  Not long ago there was a time when we were zipped, our bodies too

Our flesh was covered in polymers, our mind in images, glued to the brain by Empty TV.

But here on the beach, gathering thoughts, mixing pots, our soul will be bleached

Erased shall be from our life all those fabricated strifes by the man’s employee.

We’ll be surely safe when share a life on earth and not in grave will be tax-free

And rulers of the world united for a game of Monopoly, a killing spree of joy and fulfilment

Of laughs and breakthroughs to the other side.

And naked we will touch the sky and dance over rain and clouds, dance with the gods and dance with the saints, dance with the demons, dance with Pan and Lucifer, dance in the sound, dance all around

‘Cause it will be another Earth spinning like never before, a free-of-time space where all will embrace

A more emphatic approach on us and ours, an opened door that leads to knowledge.

The stories pop out from flower filled balloons and squash the evil minds

Transforming bad into a pillow fight and soldier in pyjamas shooting their water guns;

On the front line, wired rose fences will hide sweaty copulating corpses bombed with pleasure grenades and drips of honey will fall in ones mouth, for that lay back and let the storm blow over the shack.

‘Cause the Sun is not laying on the docks

Now, our world is full of dull flocks

Flying by rules and laws

Nothing flows, border strict

Where is the blues?

Mixed illusions explode leaving scars

And a morbid confusion of well-being

That hurts when peeing

Shipping emotions behind bars

Heads down, while the cold steel licks

The skin and rubs the brain

Everything planned to be plain.

A face without name, a number in the frame.

A place where all the ugly people meet

That’s where I want to drop the beat.

The stories of a rambling man may blend better with whiskey on rocks and some good tobacco.