I had an inspiring weekend.  NewYears resolutions to do, what else, write more.  So far so good.

I read the booklet written by Johnny Depp and Douglas Brinkley  included in the Gonzo CD of music from the film.  All about Hunter S. Thompson.

 

Hunter for Something

 

So this is a place and not a place

Its run over by too many tears and killers

It’s shaking from the funky underground

And the twisting lights colored lights

That smash too bright white when broken

Broken by a black night stick

Crippled in the knees

From too many motorcycles careening

Like mad screamers flying down the

Mud slide of a hill maybe a mountain

High altitudes gone berserk

By crazy dreaming drifters

Lulled into a mundane madness

 

Now stripped of his colors and tied tight at

The ankles the horses stomp and curse

Exactly like their old riders through the rain

And snow when the fingers no longer move

Thunder in the snowstorm rattles the snakes

And all the horses’ men are incapable of doing shit

 

It’s a far cry from anything nearby

Because nearby there is absolutely nothing

The brakes fail the children wail while all

The engines lose every drop of steam

So many months ago so many long times ago

Some might call it a shame

But it’s never been eye opening

Its never been anything but a cloud

In such a tall martini shaker

Strained straight up into the glass

Filled with razor shards waiting

As silently as the night

Even gleaming seeming to sparkle

As a harmless ice cube hung around my neck

 

And if I can’t see ten feet in front of me

Who is going to call me

It’s my vision warped like lumber

Twisted like tornados take a tree

And my hearing like a frozen whisper

Of course it’s a place and if time is

Given a window a face might

Be revealed laughing but silently

No teeth or gums or tongue exposed

Not a ripple but deep in laughter

Think of the ocean and how many miles

Down would the laugh shatter the silence

 

Daddy-O I love you so

Might you ever find the time to

Sing with me like Stephen Foster

And the banjo somewhere in the

Bloody fields of Kentucky

Or maybe it was France

If it’s true only the truth matters

Doesn’t make a difference which road

Was travelled

What time was spent

But what lies are relevant

Mixed in the batter the Bisquick

Poured lumps and all on the

Steamy greasy griddle

Seared for life

Like all the ingredients

In a completely different story

 

copyright 2011

by Tim Young