The Weight of Society

THE WEIGHT OF SOCIETY is A collection of poems that range from the first moments of a new life to the end of the world. There are poems in this collection that look at the life in India and America; there is also poems about alcohol, the down and outs of society, poems from the past to poems about modern civilisation.

0Likes
0Comments
1223Views
AA

1. a book of poems

 

 

 

                                                             The Weight Of Society                                                                     By Luke Ritta

 

 

 

 

 

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG

Chaotic, crazy, lonesome, packed like sardines in a can. Old Delhi, New Delhi or just Delhi, a city where life is just life. Why O why do humans live like ants, where blotted cows are the country’s mothers and a man named Ghandi is its father. Who knows about this land apart from

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

The Taj Mahal! Milky white and smooth as Italian marble while flashes from digital cameras sparkle like the opening of the Cannes film festival. Agra! Cow of all sizes sleep, stroll and wonder as they dodge traffic all sunny daylong. The roads are like open zoos while I spot another animal and it’s got

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

The bodies burn like the slaves in Nero’s palace, children play on the streets with excrement and pigs, dogs and cows petrol the alleyways in the warm murky air. A spicy Indian lunch followed by a small chai and I ask the wildlife WHY? Temples stand up straight like solders, monkeys live in one golden temple as it glows like the inside of a volcano. 5 people in a speeding rickshaw, crazy music rings into the dusty streets, meanwhile Vishnu stands in the dark eating a bag of peanuts. Millions of grains of rice fall into my mouth as murky human ash falls into the Ganges at sunset. Varanasi! How long will you live for? Only two items know the answer,

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Green anywhere like you are living inside a jade ring. Fog so dense it ripples with humans. Darjeeling tea! Drunk buy the truckloads taste better in its hometown, or dose it? Beer + rum = Drunk while I walk around the foggy hills and I suddenly see the ghost of Jack Kerouac, but it just turns out to be

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Clouds poetically glide across the city; theses clouds are not from Mother Nature, O no, there from the millions of cars that inhabited the dark hole of Calcutta. Britons everywhere like they wish they were now colonising the terracotta buildings that inhabit the dirty city. The almighty British Empire that was once was, have they left or stayed? People by the millions and millions walking like cows to the slaughterhouse. Why! Why do we keep on having more and more humans? We have to stop this madness or Just walk around Calcutta to find out what I mean. O the melancholy nights with the stars that shine bright.

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Turquoise sunsets with one hundred and one black crows. Dirty beaches old dead coconuts shimmer in the Puri sunshine. Colonized hotel that look like they’re from the 30′s and the 80′s stand erect. Decrepit beauty surrounds the this beach-side town, while at night the dark beach has

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

The sound of an Indian train!!!! Chai! Chai! Chai! Samosa! Samosa! Samosa! Dosa! Dosa! Dosa! Chai! Samosa! Dosa! The odour of an Indian train!!! Eye-watering smells of urine, the gut wrenching essence of human excrement while the aroma of cows and wet grass glide into the old carriages. I look out of the speeding train as see two things looking back at me, the street children holding out their hands, asking for a new life and

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

They hold hands as they stroll next to the waves like characters from Marcel Proust’s epic novel. French families walk slowly in the moonlight of Pondicherry, while wealthy Indians laugh and joke as the stuff their face full of nuts and berries. The beef is served all over town. Merci France. At night bars play jazz music as the wealthy socialise. Meanwhile the poor scavenge for food and talk to the animals that scavenge with them.

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

God’s own country? Or the country of god? Kerala only know the answers to theses two questions with its majestic backwaters and smelly fish markets. The boats are full of small sliver fishes as the scales dazzle in the Kollam sunlight. Houseboats sleep lazily on the still rivers like hippos relaxing in mud. But wait a second, in the distance of this tranquil picture are

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG. Alleppey to Kottayam on a riverboat. O! the wonder of South India. I dreamily gaze at the scenery with my lonesome eyes. Children smiling and playing on the banks, mothers washing clothes in the still water. Then the lucid visions of hanging palm trees dissolving into their reflections in the river while in my mind the Doors song “The End” plays again and again. The images go hand in hand with the aroma of dead fish and the smell of sweaty men. O the wonder of Mother Nature and man together at last. The one and only true God (the Sun) burns down on the boat and river as it keeps everything alive. Society should start worshiping the sun again, wouldn’t that be fun! Seated next to me on the slow moving boat is a straggly dog. I then look into

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Light rain drizzle all night long in the mountains of Kerrla. Kumily! The small town surrounded by nature’s greatest gifts. The many tea plantations blossom on the soft afternoon light, the heavy aroma of tea roasting engulfs the surrounding area. O how decadent to drink a healthy cup of tea, thank you China and I don’t say thank you to you a lot, that’s for sure. Spice fields and gardens take up the rest of the area around Kumily. Peppercorns hang like death row victims, red and green chillies don’t move just like deadly scorpions. Cloves are brothers with allspice, cinnamon is a best friend with bay leaves and green coffee beans hang in cluster like pearls around a 19th century Russian princess’s neck. I then look down into the dense tea fields for an hour or so. And I think that you, my fellow reader, know what is looking back at me though the green leaves.

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Hundreds of black crows hold conversation all day like they are in the senate. Also ancient fishing nets wait all day for fish that don’t come. Just like today’s society where all we do is suck are thumb. The Portuguese, Dutch, and British have colonised Fort Cochi, that are now long gone and a new mighty empire has taken control. The Tourists! Nothing more to say about them. I then suddenly see a black and white goat with a beatnik beard gazing into

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

The English language is heard echoing through out the lush valleys and peaceful hills. Goa! The mighty empire of tourists have inhabited and taken over this land. Harsh sunlight reflects of empty beer bottles, pink bodies burn like bacon in a frying pan. Music is pounded out of bars like machine gun fire. Old Goa in the right light wants to be like Renaissance Italy. I walk around from church to church like I have left India and I am now somewhere in Europe, that’s until the smell of wonderful aromatic street food feeds one’s senses. Portuguese architecture and sweet stalls on every street corner. Panjim in the drizzle of rain, like lost souls in purgatory. Coconut distilled alcohol! One drink, two drink, three drink and murky visions surrounded one’s head. Salut! Fresh Fish die for our stomachs, spicy yellows soup, glasses of fake coffee and of course more cheap beer than there are people in India. Flea markets on the beach, palm trees making black shadows across the sand. Rugs, shirts, dresses, jewellery, spices all up for sale while the heat of the Anjunna sunshine bakes everything including the piles of cowpats. Droplets of cold water drip off my forehead as I watch an old man make a drink out of sugarcane. O! The sweet taste of the drink, like nectar from a mother’s nipple. Seven cows relax on the dirty beach while thousands of humans act exactly like them. Under the shade of a old decaying palm tree is a dirty old animal who licks its hurt paw as tears fall from the

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Modern clean streets, not as much traffic as other Indian cities, European look to the buildings. Surely we are not talking about the city that was once called Bombay. The gate of India at sunrise, Dosa stalls and chai pots steaming everywhere on the pavements of modern Mumbai. The city’s beach at sunset, boys holding hands, men holding hands, huge Indian family strolling up the promenade like the British Raj once did. Wow! Look what 50 years can do. Colossus’s slums surround the centre like crust on a pizza. The poor live there because they are born there, there’s no alternative in the sad life of millions. That life and that’s that. Poor families make use of what they have got and are mostly happy with their life and loved ones. Maybe the western world should behave more like this. Maybe! An old man with a Tolstoy beard lays on the street without a right leg, this once happy child now has a cup next to him for begging for his life.

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

Cold, cold nights, the sky as dark as a poacher’s heart while stars twinkle on the night canvas. Warm, warm days, pale blue sky with a few clouds scatter around like anti-aircraft fire. Old dusty forts blaze in golden light. The Place is Rajasthn. A quaint still lake, a white place sits on top of the water like a snowflake. Udaipur! The hills and tight streets lead to the lake, and yes the new empire has passed through this town as well. Awful Restaurants as far as the eye can see. Dusty, acrid landscapes. Old men with stunning moustaches chat to each other around chai stalls. In the far distance is the huge fort of Jodhpur. O, the old city! Old is the key word, images print into my eyes from thousands of years gone by. Sacks of spices, a lonesome elephant walking around the side streets, saffron lassis are drunk and sugary sweets are eaten by the inhabitants of this wonderful place. This blue city with its blue wall and the older resident are starting to feel real blue as time passes. Bathed in golden light, Jaisalmer lives a quiet life. Eye watering smells and lucid visions of the apocalypse surround me, O no! the fever has gone into me. Fluids pour out of me as I gaze at the sandstone fort that looks over the town. 25 cups of chai, 15 aspirin and one great Thali brings one back from the void. Camels are everywhere, not live ones but the animals skin hangs on walls and are called handbags to sell to tourists. European tourists flood the roads looking like dirty tramps, all stoned out of their minds. It has its famous festival but does Pushkar have anything more? A great round lake surrounded by Ghats and men stroking their white moustaches. I sit on a step of one of the Ghats in the harsh light of a naked light bulb; next to me an old man with a stick is talking and praying to his many Gods. If I told him the truth about religion, would it make him happy? If I told all of India the truth would it make them happy?

Fireworks explode and fade way like human life over the pink city of Jaipur. Huge painted elephants lazily walk around the narrow street like ogres from a fantasyland. Japatis being made and cooked all day gives people something to do in their otherwise pointless lives. Like all life on Earth, food is the key, nothing more or nothing less. An Indian wedding.! The makeup, the dresses, the wonderful food and music. Everyone dances and drinks cardamom-flavoured coffee. While someone is watching the wedding and it is

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

INDIA! The green, white, and orange. The rich, poor, and dead. Black thick moustaches, even thicker combed hair, stomachs like air balloons. Chew, chew, chew then spit the red beetle leaf out onto the streets. Cow pat, empty chai cup, and red spit that covers the canvas of India. The aroma of freshly cooked garlic, ginger, and cumin frying in hot oil. The honking of rickshaw 24/7, children asking for a rupee. Forts old and exciting, temples surrounded by cows. Holy festivals and rituals take place every day. And looking over the poor, the rich, the food, the groups of young men, the temples, the rickshaws, the blotted cows, the stunning actresses of Bollywood, the chai, the rice, the trains, and the 1 billion people are

THE SAD EYES OF A STREET DOG.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The New Pompeii

The dam of consumerism has exploded!

Rivers of silver and gold pours into wealthy cities all over the globe. The river engulfs everything in its path. The river swamps the suburbs, it glides over the cars in front of homes, the shinny metallic substance works its way through the homes covering washing machines, televisions, computers, fridges, phones and a small boy playing on his game console.

The river of silver and gold runs into the city centre, it paints the buildings, roads, streets, shops, restaurants, supermarkets and people with a torrent of greed. It moves its way to the government buildings and there drowns the politicians very slowly as it flows up from their polished shoes to their immaculate suites and finally the shinny liquid pours down their throat and into their lungs.

Like molten lava it swims through the high street shops smashing the windows and covering its customers. A woman is trying on a new pair of high hells (she has over 100 pairs at home) a man is trying on a new suite while talking on his mobile phone about dinner arguments for the evening.

No one is saved!

Once the damaged is done, everything is covered in silver and gold. The morning sun beams down on the sparkling roads and rooftops. Birds fly overhead, their feathers glisten form the brilliant light down below. Cats and dogs run through the cold metallic streets, trees, plants and the rest of nature survive the rivers. Everywhere is silent, no noise from the human race,

The money has stopped being spent!

 

 

A journey through time

I look out of my glass frame at the speeding scenery that fly’s pass my retina’s. The train! O the train it has highlighted people life’s through the years and played important parts in great novels.

The smell of wet grass, burnt coffee and perfume hovers in the carriage like musket discharge. Sunlight reflects of the small raindrops that lay on the window next to my head.

Images fly into my mind, golden hay, like ball of sunshine, brown mud underneath the hoofs of horse, men, women, children, dogs, cats and birds living theirs own personnel existence. Trees stand erect like solders, tall purple plants wave in the gentle breeze like they are saying hello to the train.

I listen to the sound of wind, the sound of my heartbeat, the sound of the train. I look at my watch, I look at my reflection, I look at the mighty train and I then finally look at Marcel Proust.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ballad of the scared man

The soldier aims his riffle.

His cheeks glow red with the cold. Dried Blood is splattered all over his uniform. His boots are caked with mud. The smell of wet grass and gunpowder engulf his senses. His fingernails are long and dirty. The soldier sucks in the cold morning air into his lungs. He closes his tear stained left eye.

The soldier pulled the trigger.

 

 

 

 

 

The Olive trees of yesteryear

Plato took shade underneath them, Dogs love to sleep in the afternoon sun underneath them, A backpacker loves to take photos of them.

Society could not exist with out them, We could not of washed our dirty bodies with out them, The inside of humans could not function for such a long and healthy time With out them.

We could not see in dark with out them, and with out a shadow of a doubt our food would be awful with out them.

The Olive trees of yesteryear! The Olive trees of yesteryear! The Olive trees of yesteryear!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why the death penalty?

Why should a man take another mans life?

Why should one murder someone they have never met?

Why dose a man find it so easy to murder?

Why do the governments get away with mass killings?

Why are we, as humans the only animal on earth who knows that murder is wrong but continues murdering?

Why dose a wife stab her husband in his heart over a domestic argument?

Why live at all when a insane person could walk into your home and slice your jugular?

Why do solders find it so easy to put a bullet into another man’s head for no real reason?

Why are we happy, even in ecstatic when we see a gory murder in a horror movie?

Why should a man take another man’s life?

Why the death penalty?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spanish masterpieces

 

Slabs of hard Manchego cheese on top of each other as Pablo Picasso stands in La Mancha looking at the cheese with his cubism eyes.

 

Dark and dense Serrano ham hangs in dark rooms. In the corner a candle burns, a face is highlighted by the flame. The face of Francisco Goya

 

Saffron infused yellow rice, chorizo and gigantic pink prawns. Diego Velazquez strokes his goatee and smiles.

 

Warm, sweet, twisted Churros dripping with hot surgery chocolate. Salvador Dali laughs into the dusty night sky.

 

She walks the empty streets looking for the next cash machine

She gives a handjob for a glass of beer, she might blow you for the keys to a sports car, she will swallow your cum for a cigarette or sit on your face for a bottle of champagne. But all she is and ever will be is a HOOKER with no name!

She will fuck you and tell you that you are the one, and then walk off and fuck some other clog just for a bit of fucking fun!

She looks glamorous, with all here jewellery and painted nails, she is a dirty junked up human that uses perfume to disguise the bad odour of her crutch!

But all she is and ever will be is a HOOKER with no name!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crazy dreams

 

My eyes close!

I am eating a fancy meal with Hitler and Jesus.

My eyes close!

I am making love to Ayn Rand. NOOOOOOOO! The philosopher has now metamorphosed into a movie star. I am now making love to Marilyn Monroe, YESSSSSSSSS!

My eyes close!

I am walking down a bland shopping street where only homeless men are the mangers of the shops and rich entrepreneurs stack shelf’s.

My eyes close!

A strange hideous animal is following me across a foggy bog. It smells of greed and death, the animal not the bog. It is wearing a grey suite, it has hardly any hair and It defiantly has no soul. It is an English politician.

My eyes close!

I drink a glass of brandy with Napoleon, a Shot of Vodka with Stalin, a bottle of whisky with Churchill, and a cellar of red wine with Mussolini.

My eyes close!

I wake up and I have to go to work and get through another day in the dull, blandness of the  21st century.

My eyes close!

 

The eyes of humanity

I gaze into the eyes of humanity and see an emerald colour                       Flame flickers in the dark.

Should we walk forward?                                                 Should we walk backward? Should we live life as we chose?

I gaze into the eyes of humanity and see the souls of                             Mankind dance in a silver haze.

Should we love each other? Should we hate each other?

I gaze into the eyes of humanity and it gazes                                   Back at me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting on a lonesome mountaintop while drinking tea with Jack Kerouac

Strong Assam with wild tigers

                              TEA

Murky Green and an old lazy panda

                                                 TEA

Refreshing Darjeeling while watching a movie by Wes Anderson

                                  TEA

Delicate Jasmine with the rising sun

                                               TEA

Sweet fennel, mediating afternoons

                                    TEA

Powerful peppermint in a foggy hilltop town

                                            TEA

Sitting on a lonesome mountaintop while drinking tea with Jack Kerouac

TEA

 

 

 

 

 

Architecture of faith

 

A cold mosque made of white marble Is warmed up by A warm Sunrise

 

A still lake with a cover of white mist. A golden temple floats in The middle of the Lake like A Dead Leaf

 

A small synagogue is hidden away Next To a ancient dusty wall and A bunch of old olives Trees That Scatter around The holy Land

 

A gothic cathedral the smells of Burning incense stands in The centre of a small, Sleepy village Like an old Giant

 

 

Procreation

I dive between my girlfriend’s legs and start to eat out her cunt.                                                                     My tongue slides in and out of her wet opening.

         I suck and lick on her clitoris and then I life my head up into the air… I have                                                                                                          three brown cunt hairs in my teeth.

I slide my hard cock in her hole, I fuck her, I penetrate her, I raise her legs into the air                                 I suck on her toes as my cock slides in and out of her warm pussy.

Her breast dance in slow motion, a shaft of moonlight from the window highlights her ecstatic face. On the widow ledge lays a fat black cat, she has three kittens                                                                                                                   Sucking at her nipples.

I cum inside my girlfriend, She has sweat droplets falling from her brow. My seaman        Is making its way to its finale destination. I lick her pussy juice of my moustache                                                                   and then gaze across the room at my cat with her kittens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Read

                      I read by moonlight!

I read by sunlight!

                  I read by my self!

I read to others!

                  I read to my cats!

         I read to enlighten me!

                  I read to read!

 

 

 

The celebrity apocalypse

We are all sitting around a campfire having a grand time. I am talking to Bob Dylan about the Dharma Bums and San Francisco while on the other side of the campfire Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese are talking about the Catholic Church and gagster movies.

We pass a bottle of hobo wine between us, Dylan strums on his guitar and I look into the fire and see Johnny cash gazing back at me. There is a loud noise from the woods, It is Lynyrd Skynyrd playing Free Bird.

I look up at the moon and see men walking across it, I share a can of beans with Bob and then I finally see a wild man with a beard Walking towards me in a cloud of smoke. It is Jim Morrison.

I blues plays out into the night, Muddy, Hopkins, Hooker and Johnson looks Down over us from the clouds above with their soulful eyes. A native Indian Sits down next to me. She asks me if I know her friend named Marlon? Before I can answer there is a huge white flash in the distance…the world is engulfed in fire and destruction…Bob continues playing his guitar.

 

 

 

 

 

Isolation

A huge field covered with clear white snow. A red fox runs through This place of silence. The red fox sniffs the ground every few Yards. The red fox leaves paw prints in the deep soft snow, Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound, the field Is flat and has no life form. The red fox continues To smell its way across the frizzing stillness Of the land. The red fox stops suddenly! An object is protruding out of the snow. The red fox smells it and then it lies Down next to the object. Protruding out of the Snow is a women’s Hand with a gold Ring on her Pale third Finger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ghost of Napoleon

 

I drink! I drink! I drink!  

I love whisky and soda! Ernest Hemingway loved whisky and soda.

I love to drink bottles of red wine everyday.

I love to drink a case of beer with friends while listening to The Doors.

I love to drink a small glass of absinthe! Vincent Van Gogh loved absinthe.

I love to drink Gin and tonic in Southern India.

I love to drink smooth Cognac with the ghost of Napoleon.

I drink! I drink! I drink!

 

 

 

 

 

A Nihilistic life

 

                                                     30th of August 2011, a baby boy is born at 13:40 pm.

The boy takes his first steps and speaks his first words. Decades latter he gets married, has three kids and is successful in his work. He dies one cold morning at the age of 82.                                                                                               30th of August 2011, a baby girl is born at 13:40pm.

The girl is knocked down by speeding car on her 13th birthday. She dies by herself on a lonesome street corner.

                                                     30th of August 2011, a baby boy is born at 13:40pm.

The boy is pronounced dead 2 weeks latter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Metaphysical Emotions

Stars fall out of the night sky, I look up at them as they get closer to my Soul. They finally smash all over my body likes dozens of silver Firework exploding at once!

 

                                                        I dive into the moon and swim around in                                                               its trickle like surface.                  

   I suck into my lungs the surface of the sun! Warm liquid glides around inside of me. The hair on my arm stand erect, I feel like I am about To have and orgasm…Bang!

                                                                   I explode into golden Stardust.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Years of Reminiscence

My lucid memories shoot through my mind like a freight train at full speed.

Drinking red wine in Sicily, talking about writers in a London pub Scratching my arm, watching the sun sink in New Mexico, Hanging around backpackers in a hostel, sleeping, walking, Watching foreign films, reading, eating tagliatelle, Standing at a bus stop, looking at my watch, Kissing exotic women, looking at people, Road trips, boat trips, cold beer, brandy, Talking about politics, watching T.V. Stroking a skinny street cat in India, Looking out of a plane window, Washing my hair, eating duck, Amazing nights, drinking tea, The smell garlic frying and Waiting for life to Begin.

My lucid memories shoot through my mind like a freight train at full speed.

 

 

 

 

 

Falling Man

                       I am falling through the sky! I love the feeling of the cold wind swimming around my body!

                   I look at my feet above me as I fall!   I feel like a bomb falling on pearl harbour!

                        I am falling from my office window!   I am heading towards the pavement below!

                        I chose to jump!                         I am happy that I have finally made this decision!

I am ready….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heaven or Hell

 

The Middle East! The land of lucid dreams and real nightmares

The land of olives trees, dusty hills, scorching sun, rose flavoured sweets, stunning mountains, golden deserts, old camels, palm trees waving in the wind, pomegranates bleeding out goodness, thick coffee and warm crusty bread pilled on top of each other like bricks.

The history! O the history! The hanging gardens of Babylon, the wailing wall, The towns of Jerusalem, Mecca and Medina, stunning mosques, the dead sea, the mighty Petra, the crusades and the mighty prophets, Jesus and Mohamed.

The Middle East! The land of lucid dreams and real nightmares

Suicide bombing every year, innocent civilians blown to small fragments from bombs and rockets, Life ruled by dictators, awful punishments for piety crimes that are absolutely barbaric.

Holy wars! Modern wars! Wars! Wars! And more Wars! Poverty, animal cruelty, life with no choice, religion dominating every waking moment of ones life, people being murdered because of religion, and people being murdered in a 100 years time because of religious conflict.

The Middle East! The land of lucid dreams and real nightmares

 

 

 

 

 

Ode to women

Her toe nails are painted in bright red, her petite feet are as soft as the hair Of a new born cat.

Her legs are long, solid and they move like they have they have a mind of their own. When you here her high heels tapping across some marble floor your heart he snap in two. Her legs are as beautiful and as magnificent as the pillars of Ancient Rome.

Her hips swing like a diamond-incrusted chandelier. The black dress she wears covers her bum like the should that covered Jesus.

She smells like the fields of province, lavender, flowers and sunshine. Her breasts are firm and they slowly they move up and down as the women takes slow, sexual Gulps of night Air.

Her mouth is like that of a Russian princess, her magical eyes reminded one Of those of Cleopatra, and her long brown hair dances in the slow breeze Like a peacocks feather being used as a fan by a French princess.

 

 

 

 

 

1939-1945

 

Tanks…blood…guns…death…army’s…

        Soldiers…generals…pilots…massacres…

                   Concentration camps…mass murder…ethnic cleansing…

                         Paperwork…bombing raids…failed assassinations…P.O.W. camps…

                          Frozen men…burning women…dead babies…animals left to die…                                                                                  Berlin falls to the Russians in a snowstorm…

                                             A bullet is inserted into the devils brain by his own gun…

                                                    An atom bomb is dropped…                                                            Six years of death and destruction end…

                                                                                    

                                                                     Over 60 million hearts beat one last time…

 

 

 

 

 

 

You have one new message!

Are you on Facebook?  What is your Email addressee? You haven’t watched this video clips yet? Three normal questions asked every day.

The Internet has arrived!

You can spend hours of you life gazing into a computer screen Just to waste hours. Anyone can research what one wants to research, ask a question and you will get an answer.

The Internet has arrived!

People got ill, feverish and angry if they haven’t checked their Emails for 24 hours. It is an amazing gift to society, an amazing invention that has let strangers connect all over the Globe. From Catania to California.

The Internet has arrived!

Life now would be a very strange with out it, life would be impossible with out, life would be very depressing and boring with out it. but life would also be amazing with out it, Life would be free! Life would be like life used to be.

But on thing is for sure:

The Internet has arrived!

 

 

Sit down, relax and get ready for the ultimate trip

 

Your eyes fills with wonder as you are transported in to the world of cinema. Images of real life force us to question are own life, Strange planets make us want to live longer Historic battles make us fill lucky. The use of music with images makes all other art forms looks basic. Actors makes one hold back the tears or laugh until it hurts. You fill the heat penetrate your body from the image Of a dusty sun bleached landscape.

Watch the same movie again and again and then you watch it once more. You fall in love with movie stars, you dream about Their faces, you want to make love to them. You then rent another movie.

You listen to a soundtrack of your favourite film on your mp3 player While going to work. Life becomes a scene from A film you watched the night before while The workday slowly passes by in A haze of celluloid. Jean Luc Godard crawled so Stanley Kubrick could stand So Martin Scorsese could finally walk. And to the countless other filmmakers, keep up the good Work so we could live countless lives.

Cut!

 

 

 

 

 

 

A day in the life of a happy hobo

I walk across a misty meadow at 7:14 in the morning drinking a bottle red wine. I love what I do and I love what I am. Can you say that about your self?

I enjoy lying under an oak tree in mid summer while chewing  on a blade of grass, I scratch my beard and day dream about wonderful adventures. I watch insects hover over a near by corn field, then I am off again rambling across This lonesome country like a lost Ghost.

I walk until I find a stream filled with lunch, I do some hobo fishing for a few hours until I catch a juicy fish which I eat next to a blazing fire. I open another bottle of red wine I then fall to sleep listing to the gentle sound of the crackling of the fire.

I play my old guitar because love to, no other reason than that. Sometimes people give me money for my guitar playing, sometimes they don’t. All I care is that I am still playing the blues, nothing more nothing Less.

My bag is old, it smells, and it has had its day, just like me. The bag doesn’t complain, nether do I. The blood red sun is starting to Set, so I set up camp for the night. I then start to drink my third bottle of red wine and watch the stars come out, I look into my campfire and smile.

 

I walk across a misty meadow at 7:14 in the morning drinking a bottle red wine. I love what I do and I love what I am. Can you say that about your self?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A black and white murder

 

My hands are throbbing from the pressure of blood shooting around my veins; my hands finally let go of my victim’s throat. Two white imprints of my hands are on my victims red skin. The victim breathes in and out for one last time. I shake and place my hands over my face and start to cry. I look down Next to the body and see two items. A broken glass and a black and white photograph. Why have I just killed this person? Why? Why? Why? Why?

 

 

 

Mexican madness at midnight

‘The year was 1977, me and my girl decided to go out on Friday night to have a great time after watching a film by Jean Luc Goddard. We headed down south across the boarder where we both decided that we should get are kicks down in Mexico city.’

‘Before I tell you what happened in the coming hours let me explain what we looked, like. I had my hair down to my shoulders and a beard that looked like Hemingway’s while my girl looked just like Anna Karina. Not the one from the book a certain Mr Tolstoy wrote but the actress who we both just watched in the film before we left.’

Alive in Mexico! Intoxicated in Mexico! Dreaming in Mexico!

‘So we walked hand in hand through the busy streets that smelt of sex and Tequuila. I heard the far off distance a song being played, I think it was Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream, but before I could figure it out my girl pulled me into the first bar we found.’

‘We ordered a beer each; we drank them quick and then ordered two more. The music was beating through my soul while I french kissed my girl; the bar was crowded and was beginning to smell like hell. I drank more and more while my girl danced with a man And a woman who were both dressed in multi coloured clothes.’

Alive in Mexico! Intoxicated in Mexico! Dreaming in Mexico!

‘I watched my girl dance her hips swayed and her feet moved like a ballerina. I drank my beer and watched my girl run towards me and open her mouth. On her pink tong lay three tabs of acid. She kissed me and that was that.’

 

‘An hour or so latter I started to fell the effect of the drugs I had just consumed. I Looked around the bar and watched in amazement as the all the people in the bar metamorphosed into monkeys. One monkey masturbated in the coroner while another tried to suffocate his best friend. I then turned to kiss my girl; I then nearly had a heart attack when I saw Allen Ginsberg gazing back at me. I started to boil up so I ran out of the bar that was full of Hairy monkey and one a hairy poet.’

Alive in Mexico! Intoxicated in Mexico! Dreaming in Mexico!

‘I ran as fast as I could through the Mexican streets which were now beginning to look like canals from Venice. As I ran I scrambled and bumped into two young British men. One of the men held a guitar, as I looked at them I saw glowing above their head the names in bright pink writing. Mick and Keith. I shouted and then ran down a philosophical alleyway.’

‘I tripped on a typewriter and landed face down on Shakespeare first folio, as I Looked up I was confronted with three stray cats that gazed at me like I was a rat. As I looked at the felines all three of their fluffy heads turned into those of old Greek men. I looked at Socrates, Aristotle and Plato and then I crawled away and placed my back against a cold dirty wall that smelt ink.’

Alive in Mexico! Intoxicated in Mexico! Dreaming in Mexico!

As I sat and tried to get my blurred vision back I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned around and looked at a German hobo with a big bushy moustache. He said to me that ‘God was dead.’ All of the sudden a gay Irish pigeon landed on my shoulder and whispered in to my ear that ‘I declare nothing except my genius. Then in front of me a French Existential dog wearing reading glasses lifted his leg up and pissed on me, he then walked off and shouted back at me ‘Don’t you know my friend that we are living in the age of reason’ I quickly got up and ran out of the alley as I had just seen my girl run pass all dressed in black.’

‘I ran after my girl who no longer looked like a beatnik poet but now looked more like Johnny cash, I then look over to my right and see Fidel Castro was sealing bowls of chilli to American politicians while I was just about to pinch my girls bum checks when I here a car beep and I quickly turn. What I see is a roman chariot headed straight at me! I am to slow to move out of the way so I am hit straight on. I fly through the air like a V2 rocket and land very hard.’

Alive in Mexico! Intoxicated in Mexico! Dreaming in Mexico!

‘I lay disfigured on a Mexican street in the year of 19 and 77 while I am drugged out of my head and bleeding internally. As I am about to pass out because of the blood that is now flowing out of my hair. I see one last vision of a man standing over me while smoking a cigarette named Eric Arthur blair.’

 

Alive in Mexico! Intoxicated in Mexico! Dreaming in Mexico!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PASTA!

Big hollow tubes swimming in a think red source, like dead trees floating in steaming lava.

Greasy bowties sliding around a ceramic bowl with garlic and extra virgin olive oil. The waltz of the food world.

White creamy source toped with hard cheese carefully poured over sheets of green wonder.

Bellissimo!

Boiling salted water becomes best friends with hard shells, who then ends up marrying with the gut of an hungry human.

 

Sicilian sardines with pine nuts, and fennel. A dish that is as amazing as the collection of art in the Prado.

Cold with onion and tuna, warm with lumps smoked ham, hot with spinach and strong cheese.

The striking colour and texture of its marble surface, Like Gian Lorenzo Bernini statues that decorate Roma!

Wild bore infused source, with Puccini mushrooms and a fine bottle of a chianti.

MOLTO, MOLTO BUONA!

 

 

 

 

A revolutionary conversation

‘Do you want to listen to my story or not?’ ‘Of course I do. Please continue.’

‘So there I am walking through this tiny back streets in Havana, I have had a few beers but not to many and out of the darkness, under a old street light I see…….you wont believe me.’ ‘I will believe you, just finish you story first, go on.’

‘Highlighted under this red light is a man with a hat on and glowing cigar hanging out of his mouth, I cant really see his face so I walk closer to him and just as I get to him he turns around and run off into the silent Cuban night.’ ‘So did you see who he was?’

‘I did……it….it…..was…..Che Guevara….I know you think I am crazy but it was him, or I mean his ghost….’ ‘Or you mean it was a Cuban guy who looked like him and you were as drunk as a poet on pay day…..now come on, we have to get a move on or we will be late for the show.’

‘I know you wouldn’t believe me, but I know it was him, I just know it was him. I jut know it.’

 

 

 

 

 

The three jewels of Europe

The arts in general would not function in society, just like a car with out wheels. The painters, writers, philosophers, sculptors and architects. Poems of heart braking beauty, operas and plays Composed with must be the help of God.

O Italy O France O Spain

How to dress so fine and how to look so confident. How to sing so beautiful that the devil could shed a tear. How to design building that once looked is imprinted on ones mind like a classic Photograph.

O Italy O France O Spain

Stunning Landscape of lemon trees, rows of fragrant lavender and cypresses that bring euphoria in ones life. The scent of summer on dusty streets. The odour of incense in an empty church or the essence Of many tourist in many great museums.

O Italy O France O Spain

The old behave like the young; the young behave like the old. Street cats indulge on fish in the old ports. Football and religion makes up the rest of the Three Jewels of Europe.

O Italy O France O Spain

 

 

 

The weight of modern society

I am walking and walking until I can’t walk anymore. My legs are hurting, my feet are killing and my toes are dead.

But I continue walking; I have melancholy thoughts in my head, my eyes are stinging and my mind is running on empty. my mind has shut down.

I start to stumble over loose pavements; my hands are numb and have come out in white blotches. My ears are throbbing, I can hear my weak heart beat like a drum. My nose begins to bleed, droplets of blood fall to the floor like tears from a sad clown.

Mt stomach is in inscruciating pain, my hip is burning, like it is on fire, my genitals are frizzing my knees are shaking while my fingers snap like dry twigs because of what I am carrying.

I can’t take the weight any more; I just can’t take the pain. The Pain, the pain of it all, the pain across My shoulders, across my mind, the pain inside everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wild beats

 

Slide guitars ring out at dawn, along with larks that sit on a lonely branch and provide the harmoniums vocal.

Slide guitars ring out at dawn! Slide guitars ring out at dawn! Slide guitars ring out at dawn!

African drums vibrate at dusk, as dose the loud purring of lions after eating a spring box.

African drums vibrate at dusk! African drums vibrate at dusk! African drums vibrate at dusk!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old country pub

 

The smell of stale beer and gin slap you around the face as soon as one glides into an old country pub.

A barmaid with a huge cleavage ask for you order, her manner is friendly and welcoming. Real Ale is pulled, bags of pork Scratchings are opened. Silky beer falls Down your Throat.

A white dog sleeps next to a blazing fire, framed Photos of the countryside hang on the wooden walls, The taste of nostalgia lingers on the tastebuds

After a few pints, one wonders outside into the haze of the setting Sun, The image of red sunshine falling on the hop field is breathtaking! You take in a gulp of cold air and your lungs burn. The smell of stale beer is forever up you nostrils.

 

 

 

 

The most important thing in life

With out it what are we? We are a decaying corpse rotting in mud! Warm, crusty, hard, soft, bread is life! Green, red, yellow, white, the vegetable is life. O food, food, food With out it what are we? We are a decaying corpse rotting in mud! Juicy, succulent meat and firm, fresh fish. O food, food, food, You make us happy, love, sad, ill, upset, ecstatic, glad even regretful, You make us feel life! O food, food, food With out it what are we? We are a decaying corpse rotting in mud!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 22nd 1963

 

Bobby Stares into the void as he mourns the death of his brother.

Jackie’s Pink dress falls to the floor, her body collapses into a torrent of tears.

Khrushchev Stands in hunting moonlight as he looks up at the Kremlin with a smirk on his face.

Castro Sucks on his cigar as he blows smoke rings across a field of sugarcane.

Oswald Pulls a trigger three times one afternoon in the state of Texas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cherry blossom

A ginger cat runs down a dusty alleyway In the huge city of Constantinople. The green eyes of the cat sparkle In a dense cloud of smoke that Hangs in the air from a Shisha pipe being Smoked outside A small café.

A black and white cat plays with a dead mouse in a crack den in North Philadelphia. The cat spots an injured bird in the snow-covered back yard; he drops the mouse and runs to his victim. The dead mouse lies next to a dead woman. The young woman is bonny, dirty and has a syringe sticking out her left arm. Two dead souls sleep in Philadelphia one winter’s morning.

A plump black cat sits on a cold garden wall in the Misty suburbs of Tokyo. She gazes at the Human race all day with a motionless Expression. She then slowly licks Her paws and then falls to Sleep. The aroma of Cherry blossom Engulfs the Area.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Philosophical pavements

Dense fog rolls across a frosty pavement of Moscow, a black cat is darting through the streets, the cats claws making this sound, click, clack, click, clack. The feline sniffs the boots of a old man sitting on a bench, he has a Russian orthodox cross hanging from his neck, a pipe dangling out of his ancient mouth, smoke rigs from the pipe glide into the air like Canon discharge. He strokes his long white beard and scratches the cat behind one of its ears. Underneath the man's right arm is a book. It is his Masterpiece. Moonlight shines on the cold frosty streets, where a small cat stands next to a man named Leo Tolstoy!

*

Melancholy rain drops hit a old man wearing a top black hat, his polished boots making this sounds, click, clack, click, clack across the wet shinny pavements of desolate Paris. The pavements are stained with sin, the old man is stained with greatness, he holds a book under his left arm, it is his Masterpiece The eyes have wisdom like no other as they watch a working lady sitting in a dark corner of the wet street, she is holding her sad face in her dirty hands. The old man looks down at her then walks off home like a living martyr. The man's name is Victor Hugo!

 

 

 

Merry Christmas everybody!

Her nose bleeds! A blood droplet falls onto a blanket of snow like a glazed cherry on top of a cupcake.

Festivity lights twinkle into the frosty Night. Her eyes slowly blink for one Last time.

Her brown shoes drop of her frozen feet. Half a mile away a man is at a party drinking a glass of Champaign And laughing with his friends.

Her skin is pale, almost ghostly white. Children are to excited to go to Sleep. A cat sleeps under decorated Christmas Tree.

Her life slips away by the seconded. Family’s eat so much they commit one of the seven sins.

A husband tells a wife how much he love her while they kiss under mistletoe. A black shadow swings back and forth on the snow covered grass. A lonesome women is hanging of a branch on Christmas Eve.

Back and forth! Back and forth! Back and forth!

 

 

An Explicit night out

I see him in the corner of the bar, I have been searching for him for ten years, the same amount of time I have been without the one I love. I drink five bottles of beer and five shots of whisky as I look at him throughout the night. I wait for him outside the bar, the heavens have opened up, I am soaking wet with rain but I feel like I am on fire. I see him stagger out of the bar and walk to his car. I run up to him and smash an empty bottle of beer across his head.

He falls to the wet floor like a boxer. I look around the car park and see no other lining thing. I then get to work on this piece of scum. I kick him a few time in his gut, he screams in agony as I continue to kick. He starts to cough up blood…I smile. I then knell down over him and start to punch his face with both of my clenched fists. The rain pours out of the sky like the blood from this mans face.

I punch and punch with all my might, I hear bone braking, I fell cartilage being crunched by my right fist. I stand up and look down at the man who took away everything I loved. His face looks like something that hangs up in a butchers window. A mini fountain of blood shoots out from the bridge of his nose, a few of his teeth are spread out around his blood soaked head.

I grab his left hand and take his index finger; I pull it backwards until I hear it crack. It sounds like a carrot being snapped in two. The man tries to breath but only dark blood and teeth fall out of his disfigured mouth. Torrents of rain fall on top of my shoulders, his warm blood streams of my hands to the wet pavement. I pick up the smashed beer bottle and with the sharp, jagged edge I shove it into the man soft throat.

I stab the man in the throat with the glass bottle a few times and then I stand up and gaze down at him. Dark red blood pumps out of his jugular, the man twitches one last time and then died by drowning in his own blood.

I walk into the wet night…I walk away from the dead man…I walk into an abyss.

I am socked with rain, I am soaked with blood and I am soaked with revenge.

 

 

 

From the Empire State Building to the Golden Gate Bridge (An odyssey into the soul of modern America)

 

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

A Joshua tree stands erect at dusk. A pumpkin pie is left on a widow ledge to cool off. A husband returns home after a day at work to be welcomed by his loving family.   Moby Dick and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is read in moonlight. The American dream.

A man dies in a park of a drug overdoes. An old women from Atlanta Georgia has her right leg cut off as she can’t afford the operation to save it. a lonely sad hobo sits under a cold overpass thinking about his life Last Exit to Brooklyn and the Grapes of Wrath is read at dawn. The American nightmare.

*

I land on the tarmac of the country who owns the world. Wow! Is all I can say. Wow! This is the nation that has shaped modern society.

New York! The rain drops fall onto my Shoulders like bombs Falling on Dresden.

The city that never sleeps! I am asleep after six cans of Beer. Why! Why! I hear you ask. The Answer to this and to a lot more Questions is Six cans.

Bones, skin, pain! Legs, feet, toes, pain! I walk and walk around the capital of this once great super power. O the pain! I look at Lincoln; he looks at me, we both Stroke are beards and I whish I had a pair of new shoes.

The dog rolls on and on, and on. The rolling dog Of my dreams.

The greyhound is my home, lover, friend, partner, cinema screen and my ride. 52 seats, 52 humans, 104 beating hearts from 50 amazing states.

A morning red sun shines over still rivers like a painting from Monet. Stunning trees, old and new stand in black silhouette against the sun like a photo from Ansel Adams.

New Hampshire! New England! Maine! And a bowl of steaming clam chowder. Pain in the neck after sleeping for one hour and twenty two seconds. Legs are stiff like roman soldiers and I now whish I could get off the rolling dog and have a cup of Joe.

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

10 hours have passed by in a haze of loneliness. I am as lonely as a man on death row. I am in the deep south. I wait for a ride, a horse, a car, a plane…..No! A bus. As I wait I see a golden, skinny stray cat walk past me and my heart hurts like a silver bullet has just pierced it.. I say_______? There is no word that describes what I am feeling.  William Faulkner Stands Next to me and sighs.

Society! please do me a favourer and use a condom! People! People! People everywhere. Form the Sperm of a Greek philosopher to the youth of the 21st century. God help us!

I look around at the youth. It has finally happened. We have come full circle. I cant believe it! We have Gone back to the time of the cavemen.

Groups of boys and girls stand around and talk, act and stand like the first ever man did. They would Rather shoot someone at dusk, instead of reading a book underneath a peach tree at dawn. Please use a condom.

 

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

 

Succulent chicken or a rubbery old bird?

Freshly stone baked bread or salty sponge?

Strong, mature full flavoured cheese or processed chemical slices?

24 months old cured meat or animals innards mixed with salt and water?

Europe or America? Europe or America?

Taos in the morning, eating a spicy bowl of black bean soup. Taos in the afternoon talking about philosophy to the locales. Taos At night, eating a Yak burger under a cover of stars with Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson Over stunning Taos in the desolate sky, Imprinted on the Clouds is the Face of D.H. Lawrence.

Oklahoma, Wyoming, Idaho. The rolling dog at night. The black rivers twinkle Form the lights of the factories. I get board looking at a field of barley so I set back and start to read my book ‘Travels with charley’ I then see Benjamin Franklin Playing baseball with George Washington, Franklin whacks the ball, The ball fly’s through the night like so many convicts on the run, and then it is caught in the hands of  Barack Obama. I then wake up from this dream, I put on my MP3 and for the rest of the night I listen to Jim Morrison and Johnny Cash. Amen.

Bubbly, fizzy and as dark as the sand at Omaha beach in 1944. Root beer! It might smell of the dentist, but I Love it. Seattle, Denver, Portland, Arizona, beef jerky at sunrise, eggs and bacon next to the grand canyon, red wine next to Bukowskis grave, tears Over Jack kerouacs Death bed.

American Television! O the bombardments of commodities in this land. The T.V. talks To you, loves you and defiantly lies to your face. You Get told you are going to die, get divorced, get cancer Get robbed. So what do you do? You Buy! Buy! Buy! It talks down to You like you’re a child, what to do? Buy! Buy! Buy!

With out Howard Hughes and Henry Ford what would modern life be like?

The Midwest. The roads should be peaceful and relaxing, not in the US. You get bombarded by road signs, eat this, drink that, buy this, get that. So you buy some fast food and once finished you straight away fart. Your then back on the road get attacked by an army led Napoleon Bonaparte.

 

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

 

California and the almighty red woods. One million and one Trees stand in the light breeze from big Sur in the moon light of yesteryear.

An eagle flys over head, a red squirrel runs up the huge trunk, a black bear sniffs the pungent grounds at the red woods feet. Bye, Bye you ancient trees, hello the Lights, noise, madness of Las Vegas.

The North! Now to Montana and ghostly grey shadows sweep across the vast plains. A hut then a old shed will pop up like a mushroom, in the distance the mountaintops shimmer red from the morning sun. Snow begins to melt like life slipping away from an injured soldier.

The East! Huge factory’s blend into the even bigger cities, dark dense clouds hang overhead like the next world war. Cold winds shoot through your hair, people love each other and hate each each other even more. Great lobsters and the birth of America in 1773.

The South! Old trees with grey beards stand next to batted homes, music decorates the air like and insect sticks. Chicken fillets fried, corn fields paint the land, peaches and oranges feed the people with money. An old white church on Sunday, a blues bar on Friday, grits, steak, slaw, warm biscuits on a Saturday.

The West! Stuck up people, chilled out residents, red wine rolls down the hills, life is great Life is hell. The world of movies, the world of drugs, the world of money. A town dedicated to garlic, a town dedicated to Sun worshiping, a town dedicated to the beat generation.

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

Bop, bop, tap, tap, bop, tap. Music is life in New Orleans. Jazz and gumbo, Soul and a crayfish Po boy. Louisiana as the moon comes out to play, witch doctors, voodoo at midnight, bourbon is drunk by everyone, The tourist go to tourist spots, the real New Orleans don’t want them, they don’t want anyone, they have the best city in the world to themselves. Where would I be without the blues!!!!!!!!!

I examine the class of the new world and all I see is a cell Phone in everyone’s hand. At a café, bar, airport, If a man- women is left by them self they straight away gaze into their phone. They are a perfect target for a thief! I would rather look at a falling dead autumn leaf.

Austin Texas, Huston Texas, Dallas Texas, steaming bowls of Chilli in Texas, amazing beef jerky in Texas, Texas in Texas.

Is Santa Cruz paradise or hell? Perfect bums and firm breast bounce on the sand, suntan bodies kiss and swim in the Salty sea. Expensive haircuts, six packs, eating lunch with daddy, going to a party, drinking cocktails, going to sleep that night with out feeling anything in the heart. The smell of plastic is stained over your soul. Or Fake tans, bad haircuts, dinner that cost more then one months rent for a poor family. Brain dead air heads who live a pointless 73 years. The lavender colour sun sinks on Paradise or hell?

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

Time passes slowly as Mr Dylan sings. And he couldn’t be more correct as I relax on the rolling dog.

Endless hours and seconds pass by me like an old war veteran walking Down 5th avenue. Tennessee, Mississippi, Kentucky, whiskey, and cold beer.

I look at the passenger I shear the bus with and I wonder as any of them read  Ulysses or War and Peace? Dose it matter if they haven’t? dose it matter that I have? Dose anything matter anymore? My nihilistic thoughts are coming out of the wood works. I need to get off this bus and get a spicy tamale Down in sunny New Mexico.

 

Mix together in a giant pestle and mortar the following ingredients. The brightest yellows, darkest browns, heart braking oranges, the whitest of white, The redness of wine and the calmness of green.

Scup out and spread across the hills, mountains, and endless fields. Now Stand back, take in a deep breath and admire the Enchanted kingdom of New Mexico.

John Ernest Steinbeck dominates the Californian landscape with his pale blue eyes, protruding ears and elegant panicle moustache. His words tumble down the lush hillsides, his thoughts glide over the trees. A bunch of his characters inhabit, homes, bars, farms. Fruit and vegetables rippen with his soul. From the redwoods to the pines in big Sur, the veins in the leaves flow with the blood of the great author. The pavements and side walks of Salinas and Monterey are decorated with his image. Long live J.E.S.

Walking up Columbus Avenue with the smell of books decomposing in the air, walking down Castro street with the smell of sweet aftershave in the air, walking down Lombard street with the smell of car fumes in the air, walking down pier 39 with the  smell of tourist in the air. Walking in San Francisco with the smell of America in the air.

Farewell to the negatives of the US with its ugly towns, the lack of history, Farewell to the laws, cant walk across the road there, cant drink in Public cant do this cant do that. Farewell to the people, The caveman of the many youth, the ignoramus of the South. Farewell O farewell.

Farewell the positives of the US with its kind hearted strangers, stunning Scenery, huge meals, great pizza slices, farewell to the women and To the great writers and the birth of modern music. Farewell to the land of opportunity’s , farewell to the 50 states. Farewell O farewell.

O America! From Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg. O America! From The Empire State Building to The Golden Gate Bridge

*

 

A homeless man plays guitar on a park bench; a wealthy housewife gets her toe nails painted red, a Hasidic Jew scratch his beard, a Chinese man smokes behind his restaurants, a white hick goes to church, a black child plays baseball in the streets of Detroit, a fat politician lies his way through Life, a drug addict holds up a liqueur store, a Mexican immigrant get out of a truck in downtown L.A., a young women with red hair holds a party for her cool yuppie friends in Manhattan, an old man with grey hair plays the blues at sunset, a 25-year-old poet still writes, The stars and strips dance in the wind of desolation. Goad bless America!

 

 

 

 

 

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...