you

unmasked burglars run into the lounge.
outside the door the soft corns sell
uniformed men on chairs with little sponge.
you see the sight but you can't tell,
whether it's the siren or the bells
that's busting your ears from hell.

gold lady drink whiskey but waste it more.
you meet her but manage to dodge her sight.
last time around she talked about Al Gore.
how he met his downfall with all his might.
the conversation almost got into a fight.
back in your mind you always knew she was right.

the cup looks bright but the coffee looks dim.
one sip of it and it blows off your christian side.
gotta finish it but the coffee's still up to the rim.
poisonous as it looks, ok just one big stride.
one gulp and all will be under your skin hide.
i'm as sure you don't wanna take the ride.

the old bookstore's just around the corner.
pick up a pornographic mag, nothing else to do.
they say all the books here are from one doner.
ok, that mag is sold in numbers of millions of forty two.
but there's also the Time and Fortune, now c'mon you!
and yea the Bible is also sold in dollars too.

the music is low and the statue is broken.
wind buzzes mildly on left side of the room.
the wooden wallpaper has a message but it's hidden.
Sarina's lonely ghost is about to loom.
the silver sidelights are on but they only gloom.
gotta clean the mess but you won't find the broom.

your honesty seems to have a stain of ugliness.
your admirations seems to have no decent admiralty.
your wealth seems to have its own kind of poorness.
your actions never seem to have any singled similarity.
your thoughts never seem to have any chopped diversity.
oh, you just seem to fall on the dark side of negativity.

files stranded and unstacked on your desk.
blue telephones ringing and left unattended.
holiday plans pinned up for Belfast and Budapest.
you sleep on the couch throw ties on your bed.
the notification papers' on the shelf unhanded.
so you pick up the plane for Europe but it never got landed.

my lunch with mr. henry

insanity has lost its mind.
moronic as the world i find.
johanna runs in an undefined north direction.
no, this cannot be a sight of illusion.
her pale tight hands reached out for me.
so for her i left my family tree.
now it's her fake face that i only see.

the drifter man, he travels with no pass.
his thin pocket too has run out of gas.
so he comes up to me, wears a salty smile.
'hey, will ya pass me your smoke for a trial?'
'sorry man but my baby, she's got a big mouth.
says it's a pain hangin' with me about.
excuse me, i need myself to smoke her out.'

down the station the cars never stop.
streets empty but filled with cops.
history broken into patterns here.
two nomadic lovers and few cans of beer.
there's a new park for people to sit.
the number of sitters have increased a bit.
tried going there but i just don't seem to fit.

she loved her stupidity, hated her brilliance.
had a voice that could crack God' conscience.
always wears a coat but never a pair of gloves.
knew songs well and filled up my music box.
i lost my track, my life became a threat.
red seemed green and green seemed red.
then she came in and pulled me out of the dead.

we rolled the dices of our lives.
dreamt dreams and she was full of jive.
she would pick me up for a dance or little.
to songs of the rolling stones and the beatles.
just when i thought we were perfect,
on the fiftyfifth night, she bluntly left.
married a junkie named henry if i'm correct.

the smell of the holwling traffic stinks.
the blind girl around the corner does not blink.
you make up a dry smile but it doesn't sell.
you can't feel the wind so your sweat swells.
it's awful enough to feed only your fat belly.
how foolish of you to leave her in the alley.
how i wildly wish i was you mr. henry.


matrimonials fills up the day's paper.
a gloomy day about to weep sometime later.
the lift moves with a ironic sound
ladies in the hall swearing to each one around.
me here, i bump the bed with a headache.
just happened to have the worst lunch break.
as if my job wasn't hard enough to take.

who's on your side

mud on your shirt hangin' and and blood soaked in your hands.
you see with three eyes and and u walk with your gambling pants.
people spittin' words on you and johanna mocks at your stance.
mr. crooked face, the name on your pedestal, them folks brand.
you say a prayer but then will you be able to stand up and fight?
but the deeper question right now is who's on your side?

you pick up a cigarette and u put down your boomin' guns.
you steal a man's living and watch his hut go down with fun.
now the man looks into your eyes, says go ahead , it's your turn.
you think empty, light your cigarette but then it won't burn.
it's dark on your left and there's no burnin' lamp on your right.
better stare out and wonder out just who's on your side?

you shoot young folks and and the olders die without a grave.
you're just a weak man and all this time you never were brave.
for greed, you borrow a man's help, twist it and use it as a bait.
even the milkwoman curse you though she has nothin' to relate.
the Gods, they watch down at you with their faces not so bright.
they're just waitin' to know an answer to who's on your side?

you are different than what you were when you were a juvenile.
you talk behind the back and turn wicked to see a good man smile.
they cry out hang him up low down, he doesn't need no trial.
you try the good way but u ego fails you when it's not even a mile.
making a fool of yourself and now you tryin' to cover it up and hide?
even the devil's asking with a scared face who's on your side?

you just need a shade to rest on but the largest tree's fallin'.
you want to write down somethin' but the pen's not scribblin'.
you're tired and you need some coffee but the kettle's never whistlin'.
you just want to die quick but all you see is your world's crumblin'.
you've lived a hundred piercing years but you still cannot die.
tell me mr. crooked face just who's on your side?

the night time talk - ways of life

life ain't easy as someone would suggest. people like to suggest that love is the hard part. others feel that hunger is. 'two eyed' billy's wife here feels raising cattle is. everybody is two eyed i suppose. but billy is called the 'two eyed' billy. i haven't come to a reason as to why he is called so. so i have this idea that u come right into the centre of the world, live up in the centre of the world and die out at the deepest corner of the world. and when you are buried off, they throw you out of the world of their minds. that's the sad part. they throw you out of their minds. and when your spirit look right into their eyes, your spirit knows they know you no more. there now, that's a fact. so you gotta live upto a point where they know you even when your spirit solidifies and materialize. not that you can do that. in fact you are not allowed to. and you can't. only Jesus can. and we are so heavily dominated by our instincts. these instincts here make up our ways of life. you may not know that. they make up the most of it. it's like a soldier walking right into the war. he does not know which man he is to kill but he does. he does not know why he kills but he does. he does not know when he's gonna take in a bullet but he surely does. instincts make up our life the very same way. you do not know when do you fall in love but you fall in love. you don't know why are you singing 'come together' by the beatles. hell boy. everyone knows the song. eveyone knows it's by the beatles. why the devil do you add 'by the beatles'??!!! but you sing the song. you do not know how you end up being a hippie but you end up being a hippie.

so you have a way of life. that's how it is. that's how it works. you may like it. you may not. most of the times, i guess it's always the first case. you always like your way of life. like i said last time around, i have mine. and i like it too. mary jane and little johnny likes it too. you know mary jane and little johnnny? yeah, they are 'two eyed' billy and his wife's cattle. that's what she calls them. i call them their kids. don't get into the town folks and get ya' asses back at home by seven or ya ain't gettin no supper. she yells at them every evening. mary jane feels i am a very pointless guy with no direct answer to a question but she has no problem with it. but she hates my beard. she doesn't like the fact that i don't wear the clothes she likes. no she ain't my girlfriend.she ain't my love. love. i'm gonna talk to you about love the next time i come to you.you gotta wait but i'll tell you. but she wants me to wear the good clothes. fashionable clothes. trendy and bright and shinin' clothes. she doesn't like the way i answer to her. she feels it's a very cruel form. now little johnny, he doesn't like my kind of songs. you know the bob dylans and the beatles and the johnny winters and the smokin' joe bands and all the bands and singers that sing about here and there in my room every now and then. they sound like shit. but i can't help him. he has his own ways. he doesn't like my poems, my books, my guns, my attitude, my laziness, my smoking, my drinking, my behaviour, my personality, my character, my pride and this can go on forever. but he likes me. he adores me like the way a begger adores a dollar. so since he likes me, i can bet you even for a wooden coin that he likes my way of life. because i am my way of life. so i guess in a different way, he likes my poems, my books, my guns........

ways of life make the person. if a person is rich, his way of life makes him to become rich. likewise so if he is poor. my father says, son, if you wanna be rich, be with the rich. if you wanna be poor, be with the poor. if you wanna be wise, you surely should stay with the wises and if you wanna be a fool, you surely should stay with the fools. that what he says. i remember his words every now and then. the words clearly audible in my mind and they are not hollow. poor folks nevernever become rich. that's because their way of life is as such that they would never be rich. some people like to wear cool stuff and talk cool stuff, you know. that's their kind of life. they'll always remain cool till their last breath no matter what happens. and you kinda start to realize what kind o f life you wanna lead by the time you are 18 to 22. by this time you have a straight head, a straight thought, a straight mind. by this time you are straight enough to know you are a hippie, to know you are a politician and so you politicies the world. by this time you are straight enough to know that you are gay and that you are willing to go the gay way for the rest of your life and so you go the gay way. that's what your way of life does to you bob. i can't help it. so you gotta choose your kind of life very wisely, the very way you choose a wife, or a can of beer or a marilyn monroe. sweet and bitter. you want your life to be sweet and bitter.

so i choose mine. it may be very odd. it may be very disturbing to some. it may be very annoying to others. but i choose the right one for me. so you should live up with it. i live up with others. hell yea, i don't come to your parties when you call, i don't laugh with you in your good times, i don't do good things with you. but at the middle of the night with a trouble that's troubling your mind, you call me up for help, that's when i'll come runnin' down for you. you can count on that. i may do or do not do things you like but devil's hell yea, i'll surely come runnin'.

i gotta go. my head is aching. i need a smoke and i'll get to sleep. remember love is what i'm gonna talk next time. you wouldn't want yourself to miss out on this. everyone wanna take a piece of advice about the effect and nature of love. good night.

the night time talk

i stare in silence...the joker in me stands up tall, tall as my shadow. he pokes at me sometimes. sometimes as in the case of 24*7. but i have my way for him. and it's funny i laugh at him out. maybe that's the reason why i prefer to hold 24*7 as 'sometimes'. people tell me to change, change your dress, change your attitude, cut your hair honey, remove your fuckin' beard you fuckin' bastard.i aint got no answer to why they do this to me. maybe for my good.or is it? now the joker in me sings along with them. what the heck!! now that's what i say out.. but it aint easy at times. goddammnit... now the day's last cigarette's over too.

the jukebox's playing 'like a rolling stone'. bob dylan. aah. now here's a guy i can talk about anytime. i have come a hell of a long way in my choice of music to take him up as my idol. he has this sharp nasal voice that can pierce even God's ears out. not the best way to appreciate your favourite artist. but i dare tell you his words are comparable to none. and when the words are sung with the striking melodious or in your case, noisy voice of his,you won't get past over it. he will tell you a story about a ghost comin' out of the sea to take away his love from the house carpenter. he sings about the fact that we gotta seve somebody no matter you are a lumberjack or the President of the US of A. he'll tell you about a how a farmer shot himself and his wife and five kids because he couldnt stay no more in his pathetic poor condition. ballad of hollis brown... i like this song, this song about this farmer called hollis brown. bob writes about mr. brown here.... you pray to the Lord above 'o! please send you a friend'... your empty pockets tell you that you ain't got no friend... God save his day. but well bobby here did change. he changed his style of music from time to time. folk, blues, RnR, swing, country, gospel, psychedelic, political...so why don't i???

my oh my!!! how long will i go? i don't even see the road. even if i do see it, it is never straight. it's got its curves and curls and twists and bends and what not?? you start to wonder if you have taken yourself enough of walking?? yes, you are!!! my joker calls out. no, i haven't. i whisper back. you're not even using the right vocabulary. yes, you are?? is that what you said? you gotta say yes, you have, you wacky nimrod, you headless moron, you good for no sense whatever!!! you see we all have a foundation of what we wanna be. it just ain't the same for any two bodies. people like different ways of living. i have mine. it's just about that simple. i am sorry you gotta wait. i'll come back to this later.

20 mins to 2 midnight. i open up a can of beer. another dylan song passed by. another dylan song follows. the air is hot and the fan does me no good. but i like it. i sing a few lines with bobby here. i guess no one's around listenin'. the beer tastes like marilyn monroe. sweet and bitter. you see you gotta know how to serve yourself a marilyn monroe. i am not the best when it comes down to girls, nor am i good at handling beer. so i guess for me, both of them taste sweet at times and bitter the others. but tonight it surely taste sweet. sweeter than our lady monroe. i pull out a cheap nasty tasting cigarette out of a pack. did i say my cigs were over? well sometimes, i joke up. and i suck at it. but these are my brands- cheap and nasty tasting. one puff of it and it gets the devil out out of you. it's harsh on your throat. but as usual, i like it. and yea i m liking the night. so i gotta go. but do keep yourself and your eyes wide open. i 'm gonna talk to you about ways of living the next time i come around. so keep knocking so that i may not forget. no, m not gonna sleep. yea, you heard me right when i said midnight a few moments back, but u see for me, the night is just about to begin. let me enjoy my night....( bob dylan continues singing)