I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am forgotten
by girls in green silk sarongs
yet they still pour me out like tea.
The dead are drunk on themselves,
as I am.
I throw up
a timeworn rope of thought
they haul me up
just enough for me to see
the moon
caught in a teacup,
then I allow them,
let them breathe life
into my mouth
and I again remember.
basking in spring with robin songs
verdant leaves in gorgeous green
splendour swings in silken sarongs
summer retreats in change of scene.
among fleeting clouds flowers fade
fluttering branches in crimson glow
orange and brown in luminous shade
latticework of leaves in ground below
Libra and Virgo in tints of autumn
fling their cloak to an eternal dwell
dry leaves lulled in quietude bottom
nothing stays the same, O farewell !
flock of geese migrate to unknown
a spade of leaves in bonfire smoke
embracing the air, no regret or moan.
As they fall, from a dream they awoke.
I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am forgotten
by young women in green silk sarongs.
Some of the dead have taken vows of silence
lips forever sealed with amnesia.
I have fished Koi ponds for the sun,
drunk the passions of dreaming girls
as if they were my own.
Now I am an old man,
I sip the jasmine
as if it were a blood memory,
yet mind shakes
with a more than timid palsy.
Ring the temple bell once more for me,
I loved them all
and you can keep your pallid pity.
The dead pour me out like green tea
and if I were just a ghost,
just a thought once placed
upon a damp bamboo mat,
I will take that.
I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am forgotten by girls in green silk sarongs.
I had been drunk on myself for years,
a moonlit mind caught in a teacup.
Ghosts usurped my very breath,
breathed for me.
It was a Wednesday, or one of those days
with sorrow sewn into it like a prison blanket,
a day when death planted itself deep into my emptiness.
It dragged me up and drug me down
shook all the shadow cats out of my eyes,
it was a slam-dunk take down,
a glorious death by light.
Every song has a story under our big sun
Our song we sing forevermore from since a note begun
Let us roar from our core, powerful with might
Mighty might with delight for others to unite
Singing songs in sarongs to step a little dance
If people do not join with us they are in a trance
As a song is great to hear so never should prolong
A happy, hearty healthy party for the greatest song...
Dogs may join to sing our song with an upright tail
Holding notes are the goats behind them is a snail
Who wants in to harmonise the butterflies and bees
The lyrebird will sing our songs in minor, major keys...
The kangaroo will hop along to our vocal beat
Backups with rosellas and famous lorrikeet
Dolphins clicks singing tricks whilst whales do there thing
Overlapping with some rapping funky fusion fing...
Songs are for the people and for the animals
Everybody sings our songs even cannibals
We need to sing our song right now, We’ll sing it high and low
C’mon baby sing the song Oh ! Oh !! Oh!!!
Funky fusion fing...
Minor major keys...
For The greatest song...
For The greatest song...
For The greatest song...
For The greatest song
Punta Cana on my t-shirt, had a wonderful time there
Two great weeks of sunny weather with a Caribbean flair
Girls in sarongs
Latin beat songs
A far away world with pure happiness in the air
I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am not forgotten
by girls in green silk sarongs
for they still pour me tea.
The dead are drunk on themselves,
as I am.
I throw up a rope,
they haul me up
enough to see
the moon
caught in a teacup,
then I let them,
let them breathe life
into my mouth.
I am dead to many, a few are dead to me.
I am not forgotten
by girls in green silk sarongs,
(though those also might be dead,
or dead to me,
for in my dreams
they still pour me out like tea.
Some dead have tiptoed over a cliff,
their lips forever duct-taped together
a falling silence yet to land.
Some I fish for in sunny Koi ponds,
they surface but never take my bait.
The dead are still drunk on themselves,
as I am.
My reconstructed world is shrinking,
memories stiffening.
I throw down a rope made of helical vines,
haul up the dead,
breathe life into my own mouth.
Tonight,
The milk bowl moon comes back.
Sitting alongside, on a shadowy bough,
The old white owl hoots
With its inimitable yoghurt voice.
And I hear the familiar eastern winds
Blowing in on blind chariots
In unbalanced haste,
To answer me about things
I've lost along the way.
- is the road to my school still there?
- yes, it still goes there but in a wheelchair.
- what about the river in front of my home?
- it's lost it's mind and sheds tears of mud.
- the girls in yellow sarongs?
- they wear white now.
- mother?
- she still sits by the gate with her oil lamp.
And I lost my earthbound being, once again.
Is spring ever freaking well going to arrive
Bloody hell, it's long overdue, sakes alive
Done nothing wrong
Wear clean sarongs
Well sometimes I neglect to powder my thighs
Punta Cana DR on my t-shirt, had a wonderful time there
Two great weeks of sunny weather with a Caribbean flair
Girls in sarongs
Latin beat songs
A far away world with pure happiness in the air
On the bluffs above the Lorelei Rock,
Overlooking the Rhine River near Bingen,
Is the Lorelei Ampitheater.
While stationed in West Germany,
Towards the end of the Cold War,
I saw there an awesome concert.
The main band was one of my favorite bands--
Possibly the best band America ever produced
(The only band that ever gave the Beatles any competition anyway).
Cheerleaders from the University of Nevada Las Vegas
Strutted and danced on stage
In uniforms, sarongs, and bikinis.
Rain didn't stop the show or discourage the spectators.
A significant percentage of the audience were young people,
Who liked the songs their parents treasured--
Songs about hot rods, love, and surfboards.
The song of the beautiful Lorelei below
Harmonized with the California sound above.
Her paintings of sarongs I'm going to see
will be there for two months,
I think, at Lake Of The Clouds
Arts. I heard this in the news: Layers died last week.
Native Brown Bear got studied thoroughly.
It has been exonerated. The Killer Brown
has been exonerated, according to the news.
According to some searching I find out the layers
are just mist...
Paintings by the girl are hung
around the den.
Her mother uses it as the favorite
of my wrongs.
She paints bears and she is a rising
Mars. The mother brown bear ate spoiled food we had.
We left that food out in saran wrap.
I am unwrapping in the layers of mist
unrolling in the folds of rayon.
The girl's mother hated that sarong
that people on the lake gave
to the young artist before the lake died. And no one
denies giving her the sarong
and her paintings of bears and of sarongs
are with her at the opening at the Lake Arts tonight...
Azure blue lagoons with silken sands
Bodies glistening with mocha tans
Tropical winds and gentle waves
Divers exploring luminous caves
Children romping on the shores
Charming thatched huts without doors
Native girls in brightly coloured sarongs
Beach Bunnies in barely there thongs
Palm trees swaying in the breeze
A tantalizing picture meant to tease
A beautiful paradise, one of a kind
To stir the senses and stimulate the mind
The water rises, the sky is black
Howling winds, no fighting back
People trapped, horrific scene
Drowning, death, what does it mean?
Broken trees and dreams
Bodies floating, children's screams
Nature's fury , the highest cost
Paradise is forever lost
Dedicated to the Tsunami Victims
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