Back then we could eat clouds -
we were that tall, even baggy Ben (who
was small for a lumpy kid),
could leap over a pub door
without leaving the floor.
Then behind our backs
a Lilliputian world crept up,
it was mouse-grey, and it nibbled ferociously.
I went to the South Coast to roustabout;
then the lot of them
chose to join the heavy brigade;
they got real jobs
not the casual hourly sideshow work
bohemians favored.
After spinning my head for a shilling I returned,
but by then the whole decade had dispersed
like moths in a rainstorm.
I renewed an acquaintance or two
with former females,
those who had been set aside
on shelves for later.
There was no longer any power in flowers
drum circles lost their nativist beat.
Of course we all sold out,
I was just a late bloomer.
Now in my mature and preserved fruitiness
I spurn the hallucinogenic
and am as pious as any defrocked magpie
that drips memories by moonlight,
grudgingly bemoaning the sag
of this slow jowly age.
All stones are arms in war.
A day in my tutelage,
In my father's corn-field,
I stood as Oranyan's plinth;
I heard the lion roar:
Why are you a statue son?
“My sickle Sir, I stuttered”.
"Strike now and don't be still,
All stones are arms in war;
Strike and be somewhere son".
So with my goatee beard,
In the Land, my pot was denied,
Should I be still as another hay?
His voice came like echo's wave :
"Strike now and don't be still;
All stones are arms in war;
Strike and be somewhere son".
So I applied the brawl of age
And became the city roustabout.
But the Father’s kingdom came
When gourd was given a chance
To give an account of the pot.
Now the head relieves the brawl.
Knock, knock; who is there?
“The throne has a cachet for you”.
So I look in retrospect
And wish to tell you, my son:
Strike now and don't be still,
All stones are arms in war;
Strike and be somewhere son.
The royal will post the Laurel.
Retail reality is: Rite-aid roustabout ripping into a rack of ranchy Ruffles
i want to sing you a lovely song,
some-thing for you to remember when i am gone,
come on baby now swing those hips,
but dont them them feet lose their grip,
i want to rock you all night long,
i wish to thrill you with my song,
i long to take you by the hand,
take you baby to my wonderland
come on baby lets rock this house,
as you know i am a roustabout,
swing those hips just one more time,
and show me baby that your mine
Moved beyond the glow, volcanic fires
Gigantic flares exude to this domain,
Sharing what is essentially our desires
Acceptance is white hot, we come again.
For every ounce of force there is recede
The many thrusts of rage that share a time
In coming with each other to concede;
The fact remains, we cool to wait the climb.
It heals the rift between the stubborn split
Of virginal desires that spare the rod,
To bridge perspiring atmospheres that hit
The temperatures that uppermost can prod.
Between the gates of heaven there is. Well!
The saturates to drift betrothal vows;
To overcome the centuries indeed swell,
Where copulations need the great arouse.
The flow of each sensation moves about,
Like nothing on this earth can fully load,
The mound is fully filled, and roustabout
Becomes the baby’s maker, both explode.
As the interceptions feels the tingle move,
Euretha spurts as nature’s aftercare
The slag is more subsidence than a groove,
Indeed it is, to push the land elsewhere.
The maddest man I ever met
was ranting at the parapet,
with blood and tears, rage and sweat,
missives fired like exocet.
He screamed into the weeping skies
of stalkers, spooks and foreign spies,
of truth, half truth and barefaced lies,
and cryptographic lullabies.
As veins upon his face stood out
he waved his fists and whirled about,
each whisper to a scream or shout,
a dervish spinning roustabout.
The maddest man I ever saw
raved until his lungs turned raw,
his ashen face like burning straw,
at war with God, at war, at war.
He was a roustabout ranahan always movin’ on,
Ridin’ over that next hill for dreams to rely upon.
No one tried to stop him – didn’t know the meaning of can’t,
The boys knew he was restless – searchin’ for the elephant.
He could have been the ranch’s top hand or a fine range boss,
But there were too many rivers and tall mountains to cross.
He’d be fine a few weeks, then you’d see far sky in his eyes,
As he longed for blue horizons, green range and red sunrise.
Then when he got some older, his ramblin’s slowed down a bit,
They’d see him more on the high point where he’s stare and sit.
Soon he married and settled down on a government grant—
Till one day he just vanished – searchin’ for the elephant.