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.
