False cowboys take up motel rooms.
You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases
Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”
And you want to wave goodbye
To the ugly landscape. The person at reception
Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool
But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.
A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light
Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.
You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had
When he was seven and his father came home early.
Motel rooms scream secrets
But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,
The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207
Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,
The orange heat of the dawn sun
Coming through the blinds in the desert morn
Is as welcoming as any waterfall.
I think that I love Vegas
Though I have never been
It’s got the best hotels
That I have never seen.
Joe’s name was lit tragically in neon
And I stood beneath the sign
Watching the traffic running over the
Hot blue quilt of the road.
Minnesota stoners speak
Like hard bop jazz,
With echoes of the cool
Blowing down a frozen trail.
They told me statues would weep for me
After I lost my heart in a foreign country,
They told me the Gods would offer me peace
But they lost me when I heard them speak.
Venom, hidden poisons on their breath
Like thunderclouds around my head.
Lies are always told to solders scorned
By the deathless tide of tired war.
We are Salem’s fools
Fearful and hollow,
We are cruel
And born to follow.
Our eyes are bright
And our devils die screaming.
Our village unbound and
Our vision blind,
Our victims are found
To be our kind.
It is too late, for their blood
Stains our hands
And we cry to ourselves at night.
Yet we are still sure we are right.
I want to be the guy in the white shirt
Black tie, spewing nonsense bullshit
From my Cabin somewhere in the woods,
From a transistor radio with a screw loose.
I would set free insults both obscure and wild,
And watch the birds close the sun for the day.
My fans would be rabid, I wouldn’t trust them.
I would discuss history, executions, and martyrs,
Folk songs too. I’d play my own home recordings
From my solid white tape. I would spy on Jupiter,
Watch its rings and learn of its medicines.
My long shotgun (‘Rusty’) will rest at peace by the door.
The moon will be my spotlight and I will be happy.
Climbing over fences, taking chances to see a sunset that is pleasurable to the eye. It’s been a long day but for the faintest reason I can’t remember any of it. I had ice cream, vanilla, crazy. Wow what an hour I can see buffalo in the corner of my eye and that lazy tune that has been in my head since Tuesday will just not go away. I want it to let up so I can feel a different vibe but that beat keeps rising. It’s some Indian thing. After I see the world I think I should get some rice for my dinner… I’m hungry and I want to feel like I own a lot of things, so there you go rice it is. I meander to the little bohemian quarter where the chilli and rice restaurant stays open late. Fashionable couples in gowns and shoes discuss grandma and super market prices. Hmmmm. A lovely French painting hangs on the wall I must ask the waiter who the painter was, if he was sad or happy or full of strong ale. I like to think He had a lot of roses in his garden. The waiter waited upon me and I got some £8 rice. Well it costs a lot to have the nicest things. I have a hole in my jazz influenced shoe. It was cheap, I brought it for next to anything. The rice was nice, it really took the weight off my shoulders. I couldn’t wait to swim through the stars and sleep in my own bed.
Danny and Arin
The gamiest grumps you know
Pay your rent Burgie!
Sonic 06, Ech!
Red plant! Purple plant! Blue plant!
It’s snowing on Mt. Fuji.
Mambo Spain, Cuba
Not the same
Simple rhythms and pulsating beats
Slap bass rumble knife
Rocket voodoo money woes
Street sand, dirt, drink – drink
Cocktails, night time, Reagan
Economics: Drugs, no
Poly sounds surround screeching parrots
Talking palm tree beach smoking
Huts tropical sea breeze
Louisiana stretch midnight party
Mardi gras poverty wooden floors
Happy life, swaying branches
Middle suburbs in spring
True love, Neruda Lorca
Let the Latin in.