Oh Soul so tender
How You flinch at my touch
A purplish glow
Replaces the light
Revealing the bruises
Inflicted by
Life
Why choose this suffering?
Divine creator
of chaos
I cry…
And I plead
Take me back to the beginning
Oh how I yearn to know!
I am willing
Heart wide open
Listening…
Waiting…
For enlightenment
to unfold
the Dead Guy: Concoctions
Strange Brew
Strange brew — kill what’s inside of you.
She’s a witch of trouble in electric blue,
In her own mad mind she’s in love with you.
With you.
Now what you gonna do?
Strange brew — kill what’s inside of you.
She’s some kind of demon messing in the glue.
If you don’t watch out it’ll stick to you.
To you.
What kind of fool are you?
Strange brew — kill what’s inside of you.
On a boat in the middle of a raging sea,
She would make a scene for it all to be
Ignored.
And wouldn’t you be bored?
Strange brew — kill what’s inside of you.
Strange brew, strange brew, strange brew, strange brew.
Strange brew — kill what’s inside of you.
- Eric Clapton, Gail Collins and Felix Pappalardi
******************************************
To Whom It May Concern
In reality I do not exist and I say this not to be witty
philosophically speaking but because I feel guilty because
you see I am nothing
more than a fiction: a semi-autobiographical (I’ll admit)
character but a fiction (just the same) an alter ego (of sorts)
a persona (perhaps) not a fact but a lie (so to speak)
posting on a website as if I truly exist
which I do not (and never have) although my “creator”
and I share a past (up to a point) where our paths diverge:
he back to school where he meets his wife-to-be,
graduates, raises three children, and lives
like digestive bacteria in the bowels
of corporate beasts while suffering bouts
of amateurish writing and living a quiet,
common life with sympathies for the downtrodden
and oppressed, children, animals, the environment,
all the while wallowing in middle-class comfort.
But enough of him! These lines are mine and meant to be
about me and so at the point where his path and mine
diverge, I remain what some would call a bum,
with similar sympathies in dissimilar circumstances:
me loading trucks, unloading trucks, fertilizing lawns, mowing lawns,
getting married, getting divorced, and with an abundance of
time tinkering with inventions till, lo and behold,
one succeeds way beyond anyone’s wildest imagination
making me independently wealthy and I move
to a magic cottage in the woods and dabble in poetry,
short stories, and novels. So you see I am nothing
more than a figment of some shameless schmuck’s imagination,
and, in more ways than one, that’s not so easy to say.
But enough of him and me! These words are getting tiresome
for all of us no matter how few we may be and so
as someone real once said: “a writer addresses, and must address,
his own kind of people. What else?” and so I
do not exist and have no one to address these words to
and feel compelled to confess:
Shamefully yours,
me
******************************************
If you were a dead guy… what would you say?
What am I doing here?
If you were a dead guy… and your words somehow appeared in cyberspace… what would you call this dead space within a magical place called Strange Brew?
While you were living you learned that what we call things is seldom what they are. With that in mind, you decide to call this place within a place, taking a cue from Strange Brew…
Concoctions.
Like a brand new parent cradling your newborn, this is what you hope it will be:
- A look inside a dead guy’s mind
- An out of the way place imbued with the way
- A dash of so-called fact, a pinch of so-called fiction, and whoops! the lid fell off and in went a heap of so-called random thoughts
Oh well, such is life (and death).
Popularity: 11% [?]
I love this
Sounds like you’re brewing soup in that dead head. mmmm good stuff
lines moving east west
plum tree stream contemplation
infinite cliff road
Yo, dead dude, we know you’re playing in Hades with that cool pomegrante eating hot number you charmed down to your depths. Eventually you’ll both have to come up for air. Yeah, even a dead dude has to breathe….