fisher king's wasteland

he's good, people say, but we don't like him 'cause he's preaching no-one wants to hear that shit, who is he to be teaching? and reaching for some bullshit ideal form of art what's whose art? art is dead, throw its corpse on the cart wheel it out to the fire that we've set in the streets while we dance around in circles in praise of the beats we can't hear, we can't feel, 'cause none of this is real through the crazed hazy daze of the drugs that we deal these are drugs that replace other drugs that are bad if we label them so, the government will be glad to step on our feet, tie our hands behind our backs thought police busting in, stopping us in our tracks from figuring our way out of the cage that we've voted by picking rich liars, who our taxes have toted as capable men with our interests in mind but what kind of a man, wise and caring and kind could stand up and be counted in a nest full of vipers play political games, while

in my crisp, white uniform and cute little hat red and gold crosses all around i stare at my patient who cannot stare back his strong, black body that could easily overpower my tiny frame even the cold froth seeping over his hard lip cannot subtract from the boldness of his beautiful visage i will do my job i will nurse him i will consume him leaving nothing but his memory in my giddiness

i close my fist and feel a surge i open my hand again first feeling, then seeing a shimmering a tingling an aura of power which will fade as i grow older

a fortress in shallow greys and blonde tresses a fortress empty as the surrounding desert the giant face of the entrance wall with eyes, wide, penetrating barbed lashes at the ready granite-lipped drawbridge sealed tight the mouth snaps creaking shrilly in the wind a whispering, questioning breeze blowing ever out, sometimes gently but sometimes a blasting gale those mocking eyes brook no entry that sharp-toothed mouth denies all refuge that emptiness will not be stained by the passage of travellers

slow spiral up or down moves me pushes pulls me to dizzy abandon i hear soft voices whispering sweetly to go back, or forward but none are yours and none are mine my own sweet whispers long ago silenced by the spiral moving me pushing pulling me

[written to a tune from the evening ceremony in veranassi that got stuck in my head] we want your money, we want your cash, so please give us leave to sell you our trash, to shave your beard, to tell you you're weird, we'll give you our food so your mouth will be seared. can you count our gods, or our people? there'll always be more once you've had your fill! we'll keep on pushing and never stop not caring or worrying if you've blown your top. don't you want to buy flowers? it's good for your karma and earns you powers! we'll take some more money to let you bathe; the ganga will cleanse you: hey, look! you're saved! fecal matter is strewn on the floor enhancing the smell of the wretchedly poor; our holy men, they all stare vacantly, surrounded by vermin, and louts, and pee. how did you know that i'm selling things? what gave it away? is it all of my rings? don't worry, no business, just come with me - to my brothe