I was eight years old
when my world first changed colour
with a bullet in the brain of Camelot
and a Machiavellian world of grinning men
with secret handshakes
and shadowy figures in grassy knolls
……..yes, I had a dream back then too…….
saw it shot down,
televised over and over
‘till it made no sense,
dreams of youth
buried in the fallout of fear
and lies……
yellow hordes, red peril, black panthers,
….these became the colours of terror,
held to ransom in the shadow of atomic annihilation.
As a young boy
I stepped out of Mother’s milk
into a spinning world
of pungent hormones
and bursting acne,
armed with The Good Book in one hand,
Darwin’s clever apes
ascending in the other hand,
and Nietzsche whispering,
“God is dead”,
(I didn’t even know he was sick!)
and Sartre and Camus
asking from the dark alley of existence,
“Is it all worthwhile?”
What the fuck did I know?
As a young lad
I stepped out into the world
with Kerouac, Burroughs, and Ginsberg,
dropped out
tuned in,
free love,
Leary’s psychedelic clear light,
hashish conversations,
white lines burning back of eyes,
watched friends die from too much
“live fast, die Young”
….damage done….
James Dean…..Che Guevara…..
gone without a cause…….
Jagger can’t get no satisfaction……
Zimmerman’s times still are a changing,
and I’m still trying to keep up.
Jimi’s guitar calls through the purple haze,
Joplin’s ghostly voice
screams in whisky dreams
and Buddha’s chants sing from ancient corners.
I have no heroes left,
they’ve all grown old,
or are dead,
…….Lennon wanted to give peace a chance
…….Presley has left the building
and I’m still here holding this weeping guitar
…..and you ask me what would I change?…….
Fuck man,
I wouldn’t change a thing!