Whatever don't kill you will most likely make you bleed. If you don't get the lyrics then you may have already let your dreams die. There's so many minstrels that have tried to tell you the truth, and in some cases their words are carried on backs of the bards that follow, except it still escapes the masses as it should be. The mistresses and fools are lined up in the firing line, awaiting the hangman, who is courting the queen, if you know what I mean. Do you still want to stand in that light, with your head all lit up with the opium and disease. I can't see you any more, you are just a fool on the hill, and I am trying to find my way through this haze.
There are some great song writers that lived and are living today. Some of them were more recognized for their talent in music, or other bands in which they existed at one time or another, but either way, there have been many to stand as bards of their generations. I don't know if it was the times, or what, but the sixties and seventies seem to have given us many very influential minstrels. One such is John Lennon, but he is by no means the only one. I have spent a lot of time listening to these artist, and no one stands out, although certain songs may. John Lennon's "Working Class Hero" is one such song. There are many others, that when understood have as much weight, but often the writers are unaware of the weight they bare to the world.
I never made my living as a writer, which is what I should have been, but I made a few choices that changed that to some extent. It still creeps into my life in various ways, but not to the point of consumption that it once occupied. I only make this point as to demonstrate that I do have an understanding of words, and their intricate meanings when strung together. I have felt the power I can have over someone when I address them specifically in a writing, especially poetry, but do I really address them, that is the question they are afraid to ask of me. I have written many things just to test this theory, with various results. I still use this to some extent even in verbal communications, but it is less effective on an individual as on a mass. I have turned to poetry on occasion to manipulate situations, and to influence readers, but it is limited in effect to the moment, for the most part. For true longevity there needs to be something more universal, such as music.
The story is told and then it is sold, often to the highest bidder. The artist does not know why, but they must eat too, so they sell their soul and hope to buy back some sort of peace with the profits when and if they are given a piece of the pie. The peasants are all in for the ride, they know not why, but it is better than crying alone. They will give a bounty of their rice for a moment in the bard's embrace. The tax man will take his share, and give the rest to the fools and masters, who will carry the rice in wrappers to the man on the hill, cause his priest told them he will bless them if they feed the hoar. I wait here in this mix tape, splicing the words into the darkness, laughing on the inside.
Don't take this sad smile as a mask, it is the true face of a scar with slit through the light. Here in the shadow land I can see you there, in your light and airy mind, scared to think, to think what they will think, if you think, then you stop and think, did they think I thought that. In all that bright and sudden world, you are pretending to understand, but all you really have is a apple core, and the man took away your meat. It is not so easy to see from your work-a-day cube, where you are burning the past so no one will know who they are, and what you do, but it is there inside you. Toil away in the fields of deception, while on the rail way to your cartoon cut out house, which you won through hard labor in the machine. You have paid your price, so lie down and take the rest you have been promised as long as you keep turning that wheel. Did you take those hard earned grains of sand and bury them in your sack, or did you cast them on the wind, to resend them back from whence they came.
So you don't like this kind of talk. It makes you weak in the knees to see the woman on TV. What can I say, open up your jeans and let your mind wander to where there are no codes. As the book tells you, you need to do what you need to do, when it is time to do it, so you can carry on. You had better find some way to carry that stone, if you don't want to be alone, and if you don't want to be let down, you have to look ahead, don't let your eyes wander or you will miss the turn and break from the pack.
So what has this to do with anything. Well I honestly can't say, but it runs that way, so let it be, sister Mary, let it be. Brother John and cousin Kevin, have gone on to see Captain Jack, in Sufferjet City. And the man who sold the moon, is now right behind you waiting for the idiot wind to blow through your mind again. Carol is waiting on Saturn for Arnold Layne, and if you look at that way, you will be back through desolation roe before the men who know, even know you have gone down to the river. My name is unnamed, here in lies the truth, cause you know not what to do, when the tower falls, and the walls come tumbling down, and the girl you just met is there beside you through thick and thin, but gone again when you realize that you are just spring shower sunshine friend.
This is for the girl who always plays the loot to close to the heart. Her music is asynchronis to the wind, and the harp is damming up the box of rain. Are you sure you want to open that note, it may give you to much to fast, but you want it that way, or so you think that is your kink, but is it.
You know who you are... and this little ditty in the middle is for you, or is it... maybe it is just for anyone who might feel a way that you can feel, when someone strums the right cords on your heart strings. At least I came right out and provided that doubt for you right off, so you wouldn't have to work to hard. Well there it is, can you take it, or would you rather leave it alone. You know it is on the edge and you are just hoping that it will come to you, so you can blame it if it doesn't really feel the way you imagined it would. And you close your fingers around the cold steel, it feels so warm in your hands, you tremble at the feel of it against your thigh. You don't need this, it is just because you want to, that is what you will tell yourself, and that will move it closer to the edge.
Ah, I jest, as I am just the jester, and you know he is the king of fools.
JD