WickedMorgana, in the cowering darkened city; neon is dead. Theatres all play the same movie, over and over again. No one watches; they’re all in their basements or ancient fallout shelters. Morgana’s heels clack pavement, and the echo goes on forever.Wicked by Bark
Feast on your tins of peanut butter and crackers; Morgana feasts on minds. Minds like yours, soft like veal. Everyone said this night would come, but no one believed it would be now. How could it be, when just yesterday the playgrounds were filled with sunlight and laughter?
Lightning cracks sky and illumes devastation, wretchedness, emptiness. Lions have escaped the zoos, and roam the streets hungry and fierce. The wind howls your name as you sit in the darkness wearing your foil hat. Morgana laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
And the echo goes on forever; like carnival music at a funeral, like a grave robber’s laugh, like handbills flying down an alley for a play that was never produced; like a child lost in the crowds, like t
SheepLincoln’s hat was ten feet tall as he gave the Gettysburg address. He’d have to remove it to don his helmet before boarding the spaceship. The in-flight movie was Mel Brooks’ “History of the World Part 99.” Who’d want to miss that? My fingers and toes ached from the cold, but I held my place in the crowd, shivering. Oprah said we could all go, and that was good enough for me. I still didn’t see how thousands of us would fit in, but I’d learned to trust her over the years. Ed McMahon (or was it Manfred Mann?) stood by me holding a huge Publisher’s Clearinghouse check. He didn’t look well. We were going to the toppermost of the poppermost, Johnny. Cat Fred be damned. ‘50s housewives be damned. We were on our way to heaven, and God was the pilot. A small man with a colander hat began to shuffle us into the ship. We were on our way, warts and all, bleating like sheep. All happily ready to board the USS Abattoir.Sheep by Bark
RecordsRevolver spins on the turntable, throwing scratchy memories ofRecords by Bark
psychedelic days and electric nights; a Pink Floyd and Zeppelin
sandwich on a trip to younger, dumber days (always summer)
I walk through, my legs as skinny now as they were then
The times they are a changing, constant flux, one dark star to another
Places I’ve been and people I’ve met float by, waving happily
I give all this to you, my first-born, knowing that you’ll never really
understand, or even know how to make the black discs speak
We don’t speak the same language anymore, you and I, but we love
I see you in the distance with your family, my grandchildren
I’d like to see you closer, but I live in the airwaves now of an old radio
station, playing oldies all night and watching stars blink out
DunesOut on the dunes, you could be walking on the moonDunes by Bark
Maybe you are, maybe we are; see that planet in the sky?
How much more can be said about body heat, about
Sucking the marrow from bones in a vain attempt to quench?
Disheveled by dust-storms in an ocean of sand, we walk
Blank-window eyes searching for what, some sort of life?
Our feet are heavy, the ground wants to eat them; no moon, this
Now the sky is the color of sand, and there are no stars to wish on
Sweat and dead weight, we wait for the coolness of night
Fatigued, delusional, we see a rusty car approach; we get in