Lost in a Roman

Wilderness of pain

And all the children are insane

All the children are insane

Waiting for the summer rain

 

There’s danger

On the edge of town

Ride the king’s highway, baby

 

Web seams inside the gold mine

Ride the highway west baby

Ride the snake

Ride the snake

To the lake

The ancient lake

The snake is long

Seven miles

Ride the snake

He’s old

And his skin is cold

 

The west is the best

The west is the best

 

 

The blue bus is calling us

The blue bus is calling us

Driver where are you taking us?

 

The killer awoke before dawn

He put his boots on

He took a face from the ancient gallery

And he walked on down the hall

He went into the room where his sister lived

And he

Paid a visit to his brother

And then he

He walked on down the hall

And he came to a door

And he looked inside

“Father?” “Yes son?”

I want to kill you

“Mother?” “ Yes son?”

I want to…

Fuck you!

 

If his entire life would have been based on this song and this song only, if this had been the only song he had ever written, the man would have still had to been recognized for the genius that he truly was. His life was his music and his music was his life. Everything that he lived, the lifestyle that he led as a musician, was what paved the road for the next generation of artists that followed him. He certainly influenced my life, and though I have not lived anywhere near the life that he did, his words have given me a place to find comfort when I’ve felt that loneliness that creeps up following the inadequacy that this society subjects me to at times for who I choose to be. He has said all, and he has said it to everyone. That should be inspiration enough to follow in his footsteps of a complete opening of one’s mind and spirit to everything around us without judgment, just utter acceptance of what’s just. Complete resistance to what is not. And voracious action to what needs changing. The drugs don’t so much attract me, I’ve tried them and they did not work, as in the famous words of Marilyn Manson, I don’t like the drugs, but the drugs like me.

The words of a being are the essence itself of true expression. When placed together in the right order, they become what some term as art. To me, everything is art, every event in what we have become accustomed to in our every day lives and have unjustly termed as monotony; when a little passion and ingenuity is added to our moments in life, it becomes “art”. We are creators of our own existence; nobody does that for us. We allow our events to either eat us, or we can choose to eat them instead. There is a great message in the life of Christ, that overrated piece of history, for the monsters have turned him into something almost unreachable by humanity. The lesson is this: that faith is a powerful tool, and in the parable itself that is the bible, when one chooses to read between the lines, or to go deeper, or to get higher, we find the truth that is hidden from our eyes, because we have chosen to instead use our mind. After the disciples see Jesus walking on the sea, Matthew 14.28.31:

 

Peter answered him, “ Lord, if it is you, command me to come

To you on the water.” He said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat,

Started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus.

But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened,

And beginning to sink, he cried out, “Lord, save me!”

Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him,

Saying to him, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

 

The truth is hidden, and we must find it. There, above, the words of Matthew, as told by one Jesus, as told by one god, as told by everything that we see around us every day. We are that man when we choose to be, and I am not talking about biblical blabber, nonsense that we cannot relate to in our present time. I am talking about the things that we choose to see and the ones we choose to dismiss: that in our own personal and private experience we hold the key to who we truly are, and to who we could truly be, might we decide one day to truly believe it, or to have enough faith to walk on water. Because that is what is truly being said in the small fragment of that story that I chose to share with you, that through Peter’s belief, and by nothing else, he was able to place his feet on the water and walk on it. Pure belief, and when it was gone from his mind, so was the concreteness of what he believed he could do. And he sank. What I am saying also, is that in the deep part of our selves, where we seldom look, there lies the power to become who really need to become, free of emotion and free of fear, and free of the chains that this establishment we call society attempts to pin on us. What I am saying is that it is time to put down the fucking remote control to your T.V., turn off the god-dammed radio station blaring your next shopping spree, stop believing all the fucking lies you read on the paper, and most importantly, kill your god. And then become one yourself.

What I am saying finally is that we can destroy what they have built as reality, we can uncover those truths that have been hidden by their deceit, and we can finally attain that what has been until now unattainable because we have allowed it to. We can web our own web and swing on it. We can become Gods.

Look now, then, in that dark cold place, where Morrison dared to look, and see what you find. Then sit in front of your computer, or your typewriter, or your notepad, or your fucking canvas, or that funky guitar, and write, paint, sing and make music to what you discover. If you like, send me those words, and after some looking over, we’ll post them here, at this extreme disorder we call home, where reality is what it isn’t, and what isn’t is what it is.

 

---