sábado, agosto 25, 2007

Rush Hour

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Ocre Gilmar

Oh it's rush hour now on the wheel and the plow
And the sun is going down upon the sacred cow.

     Bob Dylan, Ring Them Bells, 1989.

I forgot to take the Allopurinol last week, distracted being in the south, Rio Grande; so today I am on Indocid and my head is in a cloud, waves of nausea. A man I knew slightly died recently of serious ulcers and complications, stress - this idiot petrochemical economy fuelled directly on human flesh dissolving and becoming shit, cigarettes, paranoia, delirium ...

Day after day alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still,
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

Well on his way his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking percetly loud
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill ...
Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings,
But the fool on the hill ...

     Lennon/McCartney, Fool on the Hill.

[just to show that I am not totally prejudiced agains the Beatles]

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