Life is short, life is sweet for a mercenary. That is what they say. It is either drunk with the guitar or somebody is out of your dream with sober tools. The guitar is my friend and I am ready for war. Great days I said to myself and popped the wings off the crickets and let them float in the meaty puddle. Perfect day’s work for a perfect ordinary man – as I hauled back the rope from the larger meaty puddles and caught hold of the idiot bugs.
The blond case of bliss, ease me beyond bliss.
Throwing pennies at the bridges down below.
It is all just material all happening here all technology, no mystery.
I declare war not at the petit bourgeoise man who paints a painting each morning before going to work.
But at the icy day with salt on the sidewalks.
Getting ready for war, getting ready for the great days.
Strange days. Nobody can empathize enough with the war-hero.
One man, one man down, good man down, one.
Before after after before.
Ready for war as I see the video of myself getting ready for war in a studio with my razor-sharp guitar on the hip. I don’t know that I am there but I will see myself eventually and just appreciate that I was there.
I don’t remember.
But we are still getting ready for the great big day.
The first thing I did wrong as a baby was to tear pages out of my books.
So I started backwards:
– Who’s there?
– Knock knock.
– Did you not say a word as a child?
– I already told you so.
– It is drunk with the guitar and somebody is out of your dream with sober tools?
– Correct. You said it again
– I don’t think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
– Quite so.
So I started backwards from another angle. Or rather, I folded the concept geometrically, no idea how many degrees or upside-down. Like the icy day salt with a day on the sidewalks. For pure intellectual stimulation. Or for pure emotional gratification.
– Well, you can’t blame your friends for that can you?
– Not the blue collar ones, strictly.
– Oh no it’s down to that again.
– Isn’t it always…
– …race, class and gender, yes.
– So, what to do?
– I thought you had a war to go to.
– Nothing here but me and my guitar.
– Attend to, I mean.
Nonculminating cheerful thoughtless mien. Just sit like a handbag carried by mother and mother-in-law, one arm each. That’s the punschline.
– Yeah. Be careful not to spell punschline with two h:s. Are you ready?