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“I knew a man, his brains s’small,
He couldn’t think of nothin’ a’tall.
He’s not the same as you and me,
He doesn’t dig poetry.
He’s so unhip that
When you say “Dylan”,….he thinks you’re talkin’ ’bout Dylan Thomas,…
(whoever he was)…
The Man ain’t got no culcha.
But it’s awright, Ma!
Everybody must get stoned”


Simon And Garfunkel
A Simple Desultory Philippic

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The only thing I can’t find is my identity, man.

Were all the same. We all have the same house, the same problems, the same dogs.

It’s as if I am in Devo. Antiseptic, cold and faceless,…devoid of human feelings.

The blackness of night holding back the light of the day in this brave new Orwellian world.

We traverse the night fantastic with the emotional make-up of the stouted, dancing midget. Our senses stripped of the out-dated human-ness that our ancestors found so endearing. The swirling black hole gobbles up the tenderness that once made us what we are,…what we aspire to be,…what we cleaved to.

The violent world of H.G. Welles comes to wretched fruition,…in all it’s obscene glory. A murderous lot of thugs walk the “Clockwork Orange” streets in an effort to satisfy their ravenous hunger,….yet, there is no fear. There is no apprehension,…only apathy,….and emptiness.

I look to the sky and wonder if I am alone in this mass of human wreckage that cries out in the night…in which no spoken word is ever heard.

Reason escapes me. Hunger rules me….and the clock on the wall continues to mock and tick,….tick, tock, tick, tock…with the rabid insanity of the tell-tale heart.

The cold night betrays us as the soulless spirit mocks our every waking mo….

(ding!!)

(wait a minute….the timer just went off,….my pizza rolls are done!!)

Gotta Git!!

Later!

Anyway….

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