Well the nickel beer and
Lemonade has
Already been served

And there is nothing else
That I can recognize
That claims that I am made of
Meat and bone and tissues

Who says I am man?
Who believes that I am
Not God and God alike?
And so than the hypocrites of mind
And man alike will shiver in their
Souls because the realization of their
Clear headed souls will show them
Four years of lost time and tight fitted black pants

The aim
Is beautiful

For it is full
And
FILLED WITH PURPOSE

The real beasts press
Against journalism
All trying to spread their
Highly detailed journalism with
The broken whiskey bottles of their era

In chemistry
Their is magic
And magic is merely
Man on man conflict
Where journalism presses their ink
Onto page
To produce a mere inch
Of their madness and chaos

Let lashing be the whip
Of Joyce's poetry
There once was wisdom
And Dionysus and arguments and nothing
That could spread because reality is neither
Nothing and nothing else because play
Has nothing to do with time

Because the disease of a character manning a mast
Of a man never existed
Plagues the soul of the creator
We are the agents of narcotics and of steel details
That lay to the promise
Of killing with pure reason

And everyone uses a character
For the vehicle for "quotations" is solely
To carry the story for the form of the road
That was repeated for the sake of the "story"

An lo' weighs the film
The man against himself
The U.S.A. taken over by the myth
Where myth
Could not even be defined
By our hollywood intellectuals

And than the death begins
Because youth
Was always so
Fleeting

And our age
Is always wrong
With America

For we think because we
Scream
The higher-ups are
Listening

It is laughable what
Television
Makes for
"Us"

Take the grenade and
Pinch the pin for there
Is only politics and politics is
Spelled out in day one, day two and
Day three and white make-up who
Claims to know nothing...

A regular Dylan carry.

Where are we than?

Who carries the torch?

I can't wait for the cops
To never
Carry me away for
Nothing I've always been
Doing.

And for entertainment and the
Greeks and the campaign trail
The hatred presses for the reasons
Why hate is actively productive for
Money when dealing with the flies
And maggots of Hollywood

Let the un-creative die and writhe and
Sigh with their million dollar wives
Where the rest lay with reality whose
Stones are as thick as the ones first laid

For the break is always near
And where there is nothing else
All you can rely on
Is only but the self

Where there is only night
There is no reason to scream
For the seasons have their turns
And the young have their yearns
But we, yes we...
We have reason for our season
To stretch and to breathe

I got a free hand but I got no broom
They tell me again, but I got no room
There's the check, and I start to swoon
But the taxi's here, and I'll be sleeping soon

A giant being
Where all good
Could be possible
And all finishings
Of the furnishings of

America

Have already been
Accomplished
And lay naked
To be judged
By the pressures of man
Who claim to say
They are the "speaking class"
Who speak

For all the rest

I've got no fingers
Left
And my ringers
Well their minds are on
Television's
Theft

I got no more money
I spent it all
On the freak

And the rest
I saved up
I plan on spending it on
The Geek

Take it from me
The reason to be
Is to keep on the
Breathe
And the scream

Each whisper
Shines through a plate
Of clear crystal screen
And when the happening
Let's go and closes

There will only be the
Sword swallower and
And the goat
That swears
It feels

Oh how time presses where magic
Once where and where we remember
When men were men and women were
The reason to write songs for the empty
Roads show nothing but the dim lit codes

I tell nothing of where I would like to be
For where I've been is nowhere I can see
I've lived enough to trust that life will never be O.K.
And that poet's have died in a life of disarray

Where than do I stand without you?
I pray that no worker hears what I do.
And the detective neither holds a clue
In the English grocery, the line is nill without que

And oh' hero
Who has lived past
The unsurpassable zero

Whose memory and fate
Is never too soon and never too late

Whose tambourine rings
And whose voice will always sing

A poet to die
Whose harmonica's cries
In an eternal sigh

And the laugh of naivety and truth
Where there once
Was possessed youth

The blue eyed son never
Learned the definite definition
Of a human race with a
Solution

There will always be
A Hard Rain

With ourselves
To love and never

To Frame