In paradise lay a serene and empty form
With eyes closed and clothes left torn,
That sweet birds sang to through the day
For in Eden did his body stay.
A myriad of flowers grew in his open hand
And autumn leaves like fallen dryads land
Upon this body now cold and alone
For in Eden he died unknown.
Nothing of heart or feeling remains
Under the first born sun or the eternal rain.
This child was born only to die
For in Eden did his body lie.
Vagrant preachers ramble
Good men are forced to gamble;
Fire, ice, the free blowing wind
Whistles doom and redemption
But neither does it bring.
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.
Hollow eyes from the child who wouldn’t quit.
Mother communicates conservative ideals
And father fires his atomic anger after dinner.
There is no church but the nature of humanity,
And you find that in the ones who make you.
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.