Road Poem # 1.,

sail on gypsy brothers
you roaming nomad freaks,
spread your wings and never
fear to fly to higher peaks.,
so rock the boat
but be the waves
and not the slaves
sat safe in their lifeboat ways
just waiting for their
lost at sea selves to be saved...

And so i walk slow stumble right out up on top of this pair of cats jamming on the Royal Mile - as it's called in old edina sweetest stone city this side of venice or rome - and they're jammin' one on a sitar long hair eyes always to the east and one on a guitar with a mouth harp and he's puffing in out away and he's got the drawl of dylan as he's singing Rolling Stone and i sit sat down there myself and get caught right up remembering that i'm a bum right now total beat up out not even wanted maybe in this old town here but i couldn't just can't bring myself to care cause there's always some people who never you want you somewhere anyhowlll who can be every-single-where at once to care or not be there and this song they are singing was written just for me and for every-single-nobody who ever just a sit sat down feet glad to up in the air heart dancing breathing the freshest free-est air and the man who knows he's a bum but not a done in bum just yet just a man who knows the road and learns to love the turns it makes blind corners like snakes' heads catching their tails eating up their wisdom to shit it back out no-one hearing 'cept maybe some forgotten moonlit street rant jamming to nowhere learning to love the mistakes and the lucky falls that turn into those great breaks again and again and anyhow his friend is chiming in now on his sitar all magic eastern exstasies and i'm away with his trip happy happy happiest glad to watch the world go by a minute while i just sit here and think on it at the edge of it a complete unknown in it a no direction home in it a no turning round to see the frowns in it just a rolling stone in it no letting others get your kicks for you in it this most holy communion breathing prayers without speaking in it feeling the divine riding the back of every note and it's good to be and good to be a bum everyone should be a bum but not the done in done over junkie kind of the bum just the free air light feet warm heart beat breathing type of one...

Road Poem # 2 : Salvation...

Salvation : coughing on the light eyes all swollen pupils screaming out to be saved with one damp from sweat hand gripping wetly the 78pennies blindly looking about for a drip of salvation in amongst that glitter-ball moment all traffic sounds hurtling walking at the wrong moment swivelling giddy on heel to avoid just in time a car horn blasts deep right through inner quiet moaning shamelessly walking on out shamelessly through the chic-hipster-art-house crowds thinking fuck this fuck & obscenity you but it has now its been started to be done this whole cheating of the death thing doesn't feel too good :

but beyond
all our crazed ideals and ideologies
we all share the forever-people memories
of running water
hot grass on face
the touches of fleshes
the tastes of tears
and a million other most beautiful {est} of things.


Road Poem # 3 : The Eye of the Storm...

And so while some raved
half mad tearing and biting
at their own brains
to find out some answers to the questions
they'd scrawled lewdly on their own walls

others would flip through
bright coloured magazines
in hair and beauty salons
mesmerized by the
turnip-urined gossip
of anorexic cunts
and plastic dripping models

And yet by some strange quirk of
our magic universe they both could
find a perfect calm
from the storm outside...

Road Poem # 4 : Celtic Song Of Independence...

in the valleys it rains
but the mountains sing
for the highlands
are on their feet again.

Road Poem # 5 : So do something Beautiful...

So dig a Deep Hole in the Sky,
then curl yourself up and Sleep,
to dream dance all through
darkest (pitchy black) night
and then waking up
dew damp dusty cold
and (freezing) fresh as first light
dare to believe the
day is all yours...

So do something beautiful,
like the princess who smuggled
silk worms out of China
and released the secrets of silk
to the whole (sky) wide world.


Road Poem # 6 : The Grid-Locked Dream

Phantom traffic jams,
smooth flowing traffic suddenly comes to a halt
and the ripples spread back
cars bumper to bumper
bringing road rage - like clouds bring rain - road rage :

the stiffled frustration of sexual impotency
while imagining high speed automobile accidents
and car wrecks with all the metal eroticism which they imply.,
sexual repression as the precursor to the death fantasy,
halted snuff movies backed up for miles
listening to the traffic reports on their radios...

We are in danger of coming to a standstill.
Our imaginations dreamed up super-highways
with the same cold logic as the concentration camps.,
detention to create efficiency :
we feel tragically alone but we are not,
we are all locked inseparably together.
We feel impotent yet secretly we know
that we could turn the world on its head
with a single shared heart beat...


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