Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I have been to maze mountain
of pills, satanic mills and thrill spills
been to the paradise pits not to the Ritz
I seen the psychedelic shack,
and the people that never came back
stayed out of Nam and did no prom
I wanted to be the great poet, and know it
wanted to hold up my revolutionary fist
to rip the guts out of the false mechanical idol
and blow away the neon signs of lemon rinds
wanted to exist in some kind of starry mist
where the language snakes in the spoken kiss
she flung to me out of the cradle Cadillac window
to draw out the dark inky word, show where its been
to hold up its shiny new one like a mint dime
and let the eyes see this land your land before
it was torn up and made into this armed dump
wanted to play the cryin saxophone like
all the night trains from Little Bend
come around again through the station
of constellations and confrontations
with pasts passing through infinite futures
and nothing lasts,when your having a good time
I have been to the rend Bend was born in the Bend end
or some place next to all those Native people places
names, all those wounded skies and knees
and let them see this sacred ground before it was all
dug up, when the trees were cathedrals and leaves
were the great temples of healing and singing wind
but I been to the monster mountain down that roller
coaster, and brother it isn't any joy ride, no teen blast
its just a pile of smoking wreaks in the waste lands
and cars are still drivin to the great big center of it
but the poets have to stand near the entrance and send

you are a great poet r-rabbit!, that´s for sure!!

i donno, maybe,

been to
the maze mountain
of thrill pills and spill mills
like a psychedelic shack
and some don't come back
hey jack
the paradise fist rises
like a revolution of the word
against a false mechanical idol
seen the bending times
neon signs of lemon rinds
she came out of the cradle Cadillac
and blew me a poet kiss, I tried to
catch
the starry mist, heard the jack sax cry
throughout the city pits to the glitz Ritz
the night train coming, constellations
going by
seen the confrontations
and the native people names born
from this land, your land mine too
this land once was a healing temple
of great trees and singing wind
I want to be like the great surreal poets
and the wasted mountain roller coasts
through the smoking wreaks of wastelands
and the cars are still driving to the center of it
and the poets walk slow along the place where
the road use to be where the natural ones went