THE LATEST LOOK AT AMERICANA WITH THE AMAZING … ERIC LASTICK

The nineteen hundred & seventy three’s music scene where ”Glam Rock” engages with “Grunge Rock” at The Roxy Theater…as each costume and blue jean—–front line through the looking glass—-all along the stretches of West Hollywood lanes, in great anticipation of the show. Neil Young and Elton John share the front billing at the Roxy edges of dreams. Grunge and Plunge the hard rock drive. The zany and apportioned stand in long line. View the big clock on the concession wall. 8 o’clock bringers of a real  ”Happening!” The event and rave of 1973.

Elton, say what you will…honor of the glamorous furs, tall coats and feathering of that day and time. Pieced as early birds—-who sit  in the dressings…and weird… before the show. The hanger-on’s, loose as a goose…and tag-along chicks in the miniskirts…flashes of high heeled ornamental-likened lifts…and bust-line stuffs. Roadies and groupies, iron-lay hairdos of ”the-should-straight lengths” A whole entire banded welcoming committee for Marc Bolin as T Rex…and the subdued settin eyes of such a man as Neil. Hair cover over both of them—while catching a glimpse of a tye-stick sky…and the 4 way clears of the Penny Lanes. The open-ended avenue for glitters of Garry’s painted silver star. Elton warn and the wares of olde English lack luster’s. The drunk wished to drye.

 ROXY a demolition of Largent Mad-glasses, bigger gleams. Prizes! Cotton mouth and hungers at Colonel Sanders display of rotisserie fried…and all the feeds of those imports of mescaline Cosmonauts. Rock ‘n’ roll Space Cowboys—- clear the carpets & roller-blade the outskirts of the floor-plan seating arrangements The seemly senses of this Colonel’s very own acid trip, or so it seemed. Then all his speaks,his cures; of so finger lickin’ good!

(Father pained…father grunge, in Neil suspenders—bounces and balancing in an era where Glam tends to it’s rule— yet Crazy Horse has another dance at the center stage, willingly! And classically, a grunge bounced gaff rises to the price of admission. An eclectic challenge. Strange brew has the new look. Neil quite the adapter, 1973 style. The suited tie of Glitz and Glam—-fill too seat capacity. Neil strap on his capo…strums his trade mark minor key of strings and sings, ”TONIGHT, TONIGHT” A kindly soothsayer’s ode to guitarist and friend, Danny Whiten. Played and performed right here, 2 years before it’s actual record vinyl release. HEARST VEHICLE…Neil’s outside with the equipment management. Raggedy instruments glare back in a half closed coffin carrier!

(OLD ENGLISH COLOGNE …BOOZE FESTS AND RUMMY STINTED LEANS)

                ( NEIL TAKETH TO THE FRONT STAGE)

Neil Young’s eyes follow the stage lights and shadowy exit-way…as the beat and minor scale roll with the guides of eyes—-straight towards the open areas of his distraction…as so goes the loose fittings of a halter top & finds it’s very own groove stuck just barley in a Heat duct…as Neil circles in chorus to ”Cinnamon girl” And next,abruptly notices that this sexy yet off-put article of clothing is his very own Girl’s outer-ware! There is a silence as the audience turns towards her in spectacle…and next a sudden standing room applause! The absolute craziness and banter somehow relive the pain, in Neil’s own brand of silences and quiet cool.  Young’s song “HELPLESS, HELPLESS.” LOUDEST OF ADORATION!

(ELTON RUBS SHOULDERS WITH THE GRUNGES…AND HE, TAKETH TO THE STAGE)

Piano camel color magic in the air, as some–strange…and impaired from the grandstands calls for ”Funeral for a friend” Elton waves to Dorothy along the path of (”GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD”) Elton’s lyricist Bernie Taupin sweetly whistles with an English suds and wife beside him. His pen always greater than the music industry swords…The Crocodile rock…zones in the lens of a whole new Mona Lisa and Mad hatters, spending their last dime. Mona with a tear…Madmen seem of a plan, yet more a suicidal mission of their own. ”ALL THE YOUNG DUDES” Journey spent and pass the baton back to Ziggy—who sings to T Rex! Ian Hunter golden aged and yellow curly haired, sings to an old (RCA) Radio. Radio London’s on and off switch’s too the Golden Age Of Rock ‘n ‘ Roll…long may you run. Grunge on their heels. Stubs of toes to just catch up! Yet Neil still strong. But still, the pizazz of the crowd has grooved and made their call to the banging of the gong! David Essex may have moved to soon just after ”The Wolf-man” who pauses for a puff of smokes—-the midnight holidays of snort-sniffs and snuff a 4  way clearing house; as now Elton, takes to an encore with Duck-bill, setting show and charisma—too a whole Wild Child generation. Can Ol’ Neil compete with that—as Crazy Horse sit Indian style nearing the stroke of midnight! Watches and Wheels in anguish. Momma needs you home, as Elton sings, ”Ticken, Ticken” The dressing room Television’ of the cannot miss, Carol Bernette hour… Johnny Carson’s night’s barely to sleep. The late late show ends at the Roxy… in style of a new vibe. Godfather Grunge, Neil, packs a bag…& off to his Ranch home. Elton’s travels to (”The Rock Of The Westies”) Mr Marley so righted heart-ed with  light fills of compliments—right too the sea-thru islands. ”Love thos Island girl’s” So say guitar man Davey John-stone!  And to all the raves and rolls, the island girls wave from the balcony ends of their seats, never knowing the show is over…as all participants exit the stage… and leaving. Tomorrow’s just the early edges of a dream. Hullabaloo of the less groovin’ as ”the straights and stiff shirted” dissipate in slow simmer. The Roxy lights phase out onto the next of days. Although, a new show setting is born. Ya, she’s about a mover!

Russian defector sells helicopter and lands a new life for family

Maksim Kuzminov, aged 28, is a Russian Mi-8 helicopter pilot.

He could also be the first propaganda hero of this awful Ukraine war.

But to Putin and his twisted cohorts Kuzminov is a coward, a thief, a deserter – and a target.

He surrendered to Ukraine by landing in a Ukrainian airfield and then called on other Russian pilots to follow him.

Kuzminov’s desertion is part of a propaganda war by the Ukraines and remained secret for months. It had tragic consequences too which stayed hidden for a while.

The married pilot’s surrender was the result of more than six months of pressure by Ukrainian military intelligence.  They were determined to bring the Mi-8 helicopter and its pilot to their side.

The pilot’s family had already been spirited away from Russia and they are now with Kuzminov.

Two crew members on board the helicopter were killed.

Maksim Kuzminov featured in “Downed Russian Pilots” aired on Ukrainian television. The film revealed how the landing was planned and carried out and Kuzminov called on other Russian pilots to follow his lead.

“If you do what I did, this kind of thing, you will not regret it at all. You will be provided for the rest of your life with absolutely everything,” Kuzminov said. “You will be offered work everywhere, whatever you want to do. You will just discover for yourself the world of colours.”

The documentary emphasized that Ukraine will provide Russian pilots who decide to defect all the security guarantees provided by law, as well as cash for the transferred military aircraft.

“What is happening now is simply the genocide of the Ukrainian people. Both Ukrainian and Russian. The basis of my action is not to contribute to these crimes. Ukraine will definitely win this war simply because the people have rallied very much… No one wants this war. When Ukraine wins is only a matter of time.”

#ukraine #russiandefector #russianhelicopter

Another brilliant piece by ERIC LASTICK

Being a Beatle from all the trails…the runs of development of style…the beat…the coffee houses, Jazz clubs…the night spots along the French cafes…The jingling of jewels of the Hierarchy of English tone…and tarnished souls…They, the Beatles, British Liverpoolian pop sensations were and are, just what we all had been waiting for…whether subconsciously or abruptly, ”There they came” Board the plane clear over the pond.

(PRIOR)

The early 1960s in America. A stagnation of culture and of teen idols…and the after effects of the loss of Buddy Holly to it’s Rock ‘n’ roll culture as a whole. Buddy’s plane, in metaphor…drove us completely off the skids…and a separation of the youth movement–drawing forward, yet killed that very day along with the tragic loss of the Big Bopper…and Richie Valens! Then the explosion—and what was essentially needed; ”Meet the Beatles” Fresh off the presses..and Shea Stadium. They maximized and culturized the whole rock genre like never before…and never again! The Rolling Stones also had the magic…but with it came a dark side that which never quite energizes—like the power of love! These Beatles set in fashion…& it’s timing that was extraordinary…leading to the likes and genius of Brain Wilson of the Beach Boys. He quested forward motioned…attempting in futility to a level of masterful song-smith to these levels, though close, with the fantastic Pet Sounds LP. Yet these magical power of the Beates album ”Rubber Soul”. Songs that blend one to one another—with such eloquence…style and mastery. Making each musical group of that era try and better themselves, as rightly grade (A) lyrics they did! The Beatles were the mainstay fortified, in the Kingdom of the rock genre as a whole. Nothing short of trend setting wizardry! Our hell hound ride of our existences…though they made it smoother, in all the abominations and cruelties of that day. They opened our mind. Woke our brains.They taught us love, removes of hate.Their early breakup on ”The White Album” using other session players…cutting songs, individually. A Time piece read…68′ The hellish fortuitous of a false guru…the death of their manager…the shame of a nation in the Americas…and that of war…the glorious buck. Criminal be of the works…mess held high thee industrial. Yet a culture saved by four creative Englishmen …rightful and a day…a time and place of the 60’s. Their is this walk of fame, so clear cut…so real, but greater than the Abby Rd’s…Swan song teachings. The panache…and rightful between the ears of what brought the 1970’s…Timescales of our earth like a beacon…substantial to culture…the political stew, love beads…and free love. So, as i make my way to ”The Time Capsule” which will go on forever. Always the place of the prize…and the prize is all of us!

TO WHOM WALK THE ABBEY ROAD: O’l flattop bare the blacktop–smooth. Heaven help ”The Hippie Trace and Tramps” though all those garden parties; and in such English ways…days of that famous walk. Struts and movements, mysteries and mastery of the Abby Road. Grand Guru…rock n roll pilot, Angelic white…John Lennon—-lead the fab four walk in unison.Spoken in verses, tongues…& passage points—too the Tibetan book of the dead. Float down streams—this is not dieing. Ringo undertakes and wakes all the fools on the hill. Reversible ”Paul” (*plural) One and one and one, makes three…Luminous and free, be it, Paul; as to all the songs…and sights of everyone, as one. Friends, family—see as three? Beatle owners of the flower power. ”All you need is love” George takes the shovel with all the conspiracies…& their gloom. Listening to the back reads of vinyl…A diggers guide to you and to me…as George makes the final round-edges of spade, too the depths of the ground. Sergeant Pepper photo shoots of that of Lions…and cardboard cultural icons—looking back down on us all. The ironic next selection on the juke box plays:”I’m so glad…I’m glad, I’m glad…as it’s redundancy…and so went the sixties; with riddles and puzzles that fed ”the Swans!’ A final send off with ”The Beatles” No doubt a very strange and intelligent period, in and out of time.

 AS SO GO WITH THE FINAL WALK  ALONG THE ABBY ROAD LINE: Bare witness—our world which will never experience quite like this again. And by the way, “Paul lives!”

(POST BEATLES) HARRISON’S MUCH FOUNDED JOURNEY OF TRUE HOME…PAUL TRUES UP A NEW SOUND BOOK…JOHN LENNON ONE FINAL BINGE WEEKEND WITH OLD BUDDY, HARRY NEILSSON…AND MAY PANG CARE PACKAGE FROM YOKO ONO…AS RINGO TAKES A PHOTOGRAPH…

GEORGE HARRISON

George tows the misty and mighty sea-winds of a Northern song…and one final taste of apple struttles family delights…sciffles mightily, his dance thrust—-pasts of ”The Green Meanies” of Mr. Starboard’s Starkey Yellow submarine…while Patty Boyd became ”Layla” of a tight knit friend Eric…his dreamboat and overnight sensation! And to the good book of East Indian Krishna themes and paisley costumed sitar on a star. A lineup in which George in his Sonata and skill set, runneth over the dark horse and it’s wallows…and right back to the free and firth of those dimensional pulls, as this race horse road straight——- in!!!! With or without you.

The salt of tear, the race and winning ticket …match point to the free…as it is not how many pedals, truism or growth per-say, in reaching the best dressed East Indian large—Krishna… setting of sitar gatherers…& of robed enlightens…A psychedelic rounded smooth of touching it’s rightful place…hand held star…as all goes with or without you. All things must pass.

PAUL MCCARTNEY

(A PAUL SONGBOOK TOWARDS THE BETTERMENT OF THE ESTRANGED OF ”THE BEATLE”

Highlighter Scotland air…Paul McCartney…layaway of his own animal farm of love…Wildlife of his very best backyard—pick me up a warm ”Ram” Tighty bull rover– along path… and of Eastman Kodak ways. An actual divorce of the biggest rock band ever! Paul, in multifaceted drum solo of the post Beatles, his roar to the Wings of new heights. Not of a 2nd coming of a British Invasion…but a much more Americanized voice and commercially appealing sound. The better rides… and it’s drop off points of heavy amplifiers …The Wisconsin gymnasium floors…acoustic walls and high ceilings…the vertical leaps as if a cliffhanger of holds of Universities and bus rides…bus loads of fun. No love lost of the courtrooms and burning bush, until the next town— gone off all ”the Klaatu rumors”. Beatles sessions in Canadian clues? Circumvented be of the air. thos in the know.

Paul McCartney finding his new niche…and band on the run. Might they come to your town…need be a high school or University swing session. But Paul is no fool on the hill. Bus loads of sound-stage…Denny Lane and Paul’s wife Linda’, Their whole heared dream takes to the American back roads…Homeward’ is a way to the 1970’s new landscapes of higher octaves…and who’s that knock-in on the door? Open and let him in. Let him in.

JOHN LENNON

(THE LOST WEEKEND ON THE LA CIRCUIT WITH HIS BUDDY HARRY NILLSSON)

Nillssson Smillson…open ended go the frills of one’s shortened life, yet so skilled and produced in the eve of the precious pieces of exceptional vocals—which moves—startles of octave wonders in all of the lite brigades…as evening fall too the final sleep…rubs and reunion plagues—in the end and it’s cold of life.Yet what a balance of gifted placements, the silver of the Beatle-ware. Lov of an individual, as Harry and John hang around the LA Circuit and bars,as 2 starboard Clowns—– courted and ‘nurse maid by a Ms May Pang …All going off their rockers; and rollicking by nature of John Lennon and Harry Nillsson…under Yoko’s blessings. 1974 lead to it’s total obscurity …late night undertows —with all the bells and whistles…and torrid twists and dances of May Pang; and one last ditch party of bachelorhood for two restless talents. The chants and drunken self fulfilled riches…luxury luscious corners…the Poole and billiard swings. Punches never pulled. Aim low and dirty, the swingers clubs…the back corner bars. The loud crowd and voices…virtually no one seemed to care…until the very next stunted and shortened swings of fists aimed wrongly…to the overnight cell or padded walls. Depended on one’s point of view.

FIND’S OF MR. ELTON, THE NY STAGE TOO HEIGHTS HIGHER OF THOSE MID LIFE KEYS

The midnight winds, smoke outs and reefers. The Times reviews. See of the stage. Harry Nillsson so welcomed by his old Beatle mates…cookbook languages and linguistics of ”Lime in the coconut” Industry built of rocket-man, woman gone so wild; though heart sunken, heart hereditary short circle of Harry’s rock n roll dream. ”What ever gets you through the night” Sings and duet of Elton and John Lennon, that is—while Harry on the drunken path of heart wines. Avenues are helliacious to those closed off skids. Hang over a beaten path. Yet still, the fun Harry and John had. Ms Pang too. 1974 of flash backs of high billboard wisdom’s. The set…thee beat scene. The ambitions of the party while the night is young. One last time. The best hurrah’s before the big sleep. ”Old Harry, they should name a street or avenue after ya’ boy.The better part of the LA swing surf is a joy but soon runs thin, in the burnout…and falls of the ebb and flow of tides; as now it is time to go back to the Dakota…and get your girl Yoko back in your good graces…as pal Harry slips int next weeks singer sensation…prolong…as best he can…and as long as it will take him.

RINGO TAKES A PHOTOGRAPH

Heart-wrenching is the frozen scenes of time. Golden haired, then…plenty the world of it’s sights and sees. Now a photograph—clear out of time. Whistle blow the fog engine…and all of one’s mind. The conductor in the moment…in the clear. The tracks of ex rows of happiness, holidays bring a bow…a lone set of eyes. These photographs…photo scene like double.”Split images out of the rain”. A pained place in a cold seer room, alone. What’s left is like a theft…a handcuff of watching yesterday’s news. Today how do thee suffer…although the ”Rings” …and all the Beatles which seem to gleam in and out these heated crawled storage’s…have place. They have time to understand…seeing outside the opaques…new glory. A love and fill of my heart to whole. The crescendo builds me a proper…a good memory home. I will go there through the old town-blues…hills and hollers answer like a straw hat driven traveler. A nutshell to open new dreams. New days lie ahead. Home with thanks…giving of one self, this day. I have my photograph. Set in my wallet so neat and so clean. One day soon our hand and arms to touch of a better world…a better place. This photograph live in the young.

#BEAT;ES #JOHNPAULGEORGEANDRINGO

It’s always been seen as a fair game to boo, lampoon, insult, attack, complain about and scoff at Bob Dylan.

This attitude has made me furious over the years … of course he can sing, he is probably one of the most inventive singers since the beginning of popular music and has influenced the whole inflection and style of rock music.

Bob is a writer of stunning prose too of course, but he is first and foremost a musical poet, a bard, a troubadour, an unfinished work of art.

We’ve been sharing rave reviews here at The Society since the beginning of his new tour. when Dylan finally got the chance to take his strolling bones back on the road again after Covid, the tragic hint of a sex scandal and the release of the stunning beautiful Rough and Rowdy Ways.

And the reviews, mainly, have been written by the man-and-woman on the street who’ve got other things to do with their lives but took the trouble to jot down notes and thoughts and their enthusiasms for Bob and his band landed in places like Milwaukee, Bloomington, Hershey and Moon Township.

And then he arrived in New York and he got ignored and insulted.

No New York Times review (if I’ve missed this please send me a link, I’d love to be wrong) and a handful of bad reviews from the Mr Jones’s on the street. We share them here:

Dave & Molly from Montreal, Quebec

EXPECTED SO MUCH, RECEIVED SO LITTLE

Dylan has always been one of my favorites. This was the 3rd time seeing him in Montreal, I was ready for another treat. Had fabulous $$$ seats 100 feet from Bob. The lights came up and there was Bob dressed in white, standing in front of the black, grand piano banging out his first tune in a surprisingly low pitch, gravely voice. His guitar lay across a chair a few feet away with his white brimmed hat atop, We would never hear that guitar or see him with hat on. Instead he alternated playing old and new songs either sitting or standing at the piano then grabbing a mic stand at the back wall of the stage as far from his audience as possible as he crooned old American standards. I came to see Dylan play guitar and sing like he meant it. Not a single word was uttered to his fans, not a smile, not a nod. Between songs he shuffled to a table to get a drink, hanging on to equipment as he walked. He looked old and disinterested. What an utter disappointment for me and my girlfriend.

P. A. C. from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

SELFISH, DISENGAGED & UNDECIPHERABLE DYLAN AT THE MET PHILA.

When the best part of your concert event is the newly renovated Met and the outstanding food at Osteria, you know it’s going to be a bad night. A 60th birthday present from my daughter who is a singer and astute listener of all music. She knows how much I love Dylan’s music and wanted to take me to see him for the first time. It was an utter embarrassment. Dylan voice itself was as good and raw it’s always been but we couldn’t understand a word as he mumbled and garbled every word. His arrangement changes on some songs such as Like a Rolling Stone, were shockingly discordant to the essence of the song. And for 1 hour and 30 minutes, as we sat hoping things would get better, he didn’t muster one single word of welcome, thanks, or appreciation to his audience of 3,500. As we walked out on Bob 30 minutes early, he had me feeling badly for my daughter who certainly lost some respect for one of the musical heroes I spent years extolling. Bob my friend, it’s time to retire.

Sarah from Columbus, Ohio

GROSSLY INACCURATE VISIONS OF BOB DYLAN

If you attended Bob Dylan’s concert last night at the Palace Theatre expecting to see a lounge act and almost unrecognizable versions of Desolation Row and Tangled Up in Blue then you got what you paid for. If, like me, you were hoping to see Bob with his harmonica and guitar playing Just Like a Woman, Don’t think Twice it’s Alright, Like a Rolling Stone, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door…ANY of his songs – in their original arrangements – that define him as one of the best poets/storytellers/lyricists to ever live, then you were left absolutely heartbroken like me. Before going to the show, I had heard that for years Dylan hasn’t been great live, that he doesn’t acknowledge or interact with the audience, that he doesn’t play many of his classics, so I guess I’m the fool for not listening to those comments and thinking my experience would be different. As I sit here today listening to live Dylan albums from ’67, I can’t help but cry for the artist I never got to see live.

And yet Allison Rapp, a professional writer, had this to say: Dylan, perhaps more so than any singer-songwriter of his generation, has continuously asked his listeners to, in essence, think again. Newly arranged versions of old songs were peppered throughout the evening, including completely reimagined versions of Tempest’s “Early Roman Kings,” Slow Train Coming‘s “Gotta Serve Somebody,” “To Be Alone With You” a track from 1969’s Nashville Skyline which Dylan has not performed live since 2005 and the also recently reintroduced “Every Grain of Sand” from Shot of Love. A Frank Sinatra cover, “Melancholy Mood,” which Dylan performed on his 2016 album, Fallen Angels, also appeared.

Dylan did not come back for an encore, perhaps choosing to save his energy for the next two nights of shows at the Beacon, plus the string of East Coast dates he has planned for the rest of this month and the beginning of next. But at 80, the legendary musician seems energized by simply being back on a stage, surrounded by a supportive band, performing new compositions that most Dylan fans have spent months listening to in the confines of quarantine and now get to hear in their full live glory.

As his Rough and Rowdy Ways Tour moves on, ticket holders can expect a wonderfully rested and still remarkably enigmatic Dylan to greet them, even if it is with only a few words in between songs. As he sang in 1961, “You can step on my name, you can try and get me beat, when I leave New York, I’ll be standing on my feet.”

 What are your thoughts on Bob’s fascinating career..?

#bobdylan #roughand rowdy

PAT GARRETT & BILLY THE KID (KNOCKING ON HEAVEN’S DOOR)

                   (A BILLY THE KID PERSPECTIVE)

Another grand opus by the quite brilliant Eric Lastick

Pat Garrett Texas cowpoke, high call it home.Home wherever the cowboy in him. Tilt barrels of frozen memories—–all through the grimes of days. Dust-belts and passing bull rings. Army-up against the beast. The new west…southern draw remains. Home and yonder clear the still waters of yesterday’s dreams. Lost in the saddles like ancient times. Row boats and measures…the Lewis and Clark northern path, unlike mine. The cowboy mend… steady short climb. Discovery short-band sweet—and of the lone home and horse sent  to me, as a gift from a friend, now foe, Billy the Kid!

                   (A SALOON STYLE PIANO PLAYS)

 The city dwell and making a man out of a stone fixture. Better times lay out the range. Angus and black tobacco stain oak bent corners of round horseshoe in one. Those southern draw’s need make way–past this city. New Mexico’s fresh out of gun-belt, cowpoke, high call, be it of home. A Marshall’s extend stay.

Billy Bony…a gunslinger life. A timetable unlike the rest of us. The gated opens to the range of gunfire. Halts of every door. Stable hands draws of eyes…hears of the day—blue barrel rumbles. Nighttime crossbow sleeps with one eye open. The basis for heaven’s callings, as Dylan established so eloquently—too the knock knock knocking…The prose of his own guitar. No fiddler on this day, this hour. Gunman cannot hide. The time table shows. Pat Garrett out of rides. Billy the Kid in one last draw of this hour of the gun. Dylan counts thee assures…the measures of the doors. Heaven in song.

 BLOOD ON THE TRACKS

 Those blood reined tracks…must is the reign and saddle. Most are the plans you’ll spread. Riders badged and heaven star pasted push-back winds. How many revolves of the doors. Must stay focus. Centered and path. Four by four are the steadies in song. Vocals stay-ed smooth…come and go to next-ed verse. Seamless and bodied to mandolin seated whole sequenced and rye. The company one keep…obeys only in honest ways through the open air that guides… Leaves behind the empties of gust and cruel…keep the beauty of stain glass and presumes of iron-on dreams. Pipes and homestead more than child-like takes and images. The answers seem to flow in partnership, as if they’ve always been there. The unity heart feed-stock…the horse you’ll run. No needs more than ten. Commanded tights in moral standbys—all the way to the sings of the bridge. Fall the draws and the empties and canned in faces, not what this is about. Rows and rows of followers—wishing wells lost their pennies, oft track…cash their final coin. Margins bargain left next door. The band, up and played on. The right fit is “the whole” What gets it done…pasted those bloody tracks.

 JOHN WESLEY HARDING

  (THE NEXT FORCE DRIVEN TRAIL)

 John Wesley Harding looked out the shack and it’s holds of those old days. Decisions with less ‘sun up’ waking hours until realized of the sleep. Wind drawn to nap-sack …flow the ways. The pen or pencil, a kind of artist pad of words and wisest, as a tree or brush run of the clear sighted day. Mom- esk Robin Red above the branch lines… as cinnamon lunches to fledgling, close distances…the clear sighted Mary, Me–Mom…as June Wesley, tall stick in hand–clear the smokes of old campfire…smoky ridges need no home. The avenue is a trail to the best won stories of one’s soul searches. Brandy is a virtue to the flights of birds that stalk and prey. NEW DAY

Harding on his way further North, fights the good fight…sees what is much clearer now. Spring visit a little while…Harding too. The buds and wished of springs…water levers fill in the calm cool drink of day…clearer now, though older. Solar be of a sun…feeling never so young.

 SERIES OF DREAMS

  (TENDING ACES. THESE SERIES OF DREAMS)

  The poet delves in sequenced paired halves…images as if tossed and slowed—right back at the steady eyes…brings and basket-ed as three. The turn of the hands and in halves of the clock…it’s hour and seconds united. Clauses and energy dusts o’ mighty in partnered dreams. The poet knows, as if life is but a dream. Gently cadences—sees of all our frailties in rows. Paddle down stream…the fine feathers of all the animals knowing so well. Feed their young…honor and prides of Lions. C.S. Elliott brought his son. Sun rises all of the same. Sets of Jobs and riches. Count our blessings…give thanks of the little things that which bring us real joy. Family, friends…few if be of the wiser. Family on the pick-ed blend of good and bad…may all be brought back to happy sides…cures; even of no longer in good graces. This series of dreams has a bed and kind of food for thought bellyful for breakfast. And when we wake up, we are fit and rightly meant to see our actual home of homes…Just a precise and little bit before the last myriad of fly-full years. Screen Jam should have bought a camera…though may indeed just ride the clouded puffs of carpet. Magic and pearls. Tending aces, these series of dreams. Dylan song signatures…interprets in strides of three.

 THE TEMPEST

 (IN-SIGHTED LONG-ED DAYS) 

 The spade to earth, every cornered edge, every new beginning. Then the muddle, less the will. The ware-withal …a certain kind of sense—go tempered the bloodstream. Iron’s still knock-knee hots for a little more certain endeavored reason. Cause. Living callus days into years. The weathered bright star you are. The frightened pace of ”back and forth”…days grow short in the ending of one’s ‘dears and dared, as in life’ Busy me in the branched frost glisten of a mature mind. Find humor and mellow along the slow walk path finding home once more. The canals whom you once came charging in; now are a backdrop memory old as one is young. The forfeit is optional in withering aged. Tall cropped hair out of  monkey business of only youth fit dreams, though so old. So busy with just that. A few cent penny stockings buy me an old green stamp, i only used to know. But it’s alright, I’m only seeming. The dig is worth the born driven plot in grounds. Beautiful sky of orange leaf angling in corner eye. Lay spun a beautiful place. Rest me a lot, I’ll need it—for those dreams of gardens…riches. Now i have um all. Raise like a sunlamp…phased once more.  

Sadly, we have to defend a frog-eyed monster to protect our own freedoms

Coutts, perceived as an international private bank for the super-rich,  has cancelled one of the most dangerous men in the UK.

But this censorship had nothing to do with Farage’s political pontifications or the fact that the ex-banker-turned-big-w*!nk*r has been erroneously described as not being too well-off, or even Brexit.

No, a leaked memo shows bank executives just hated his views.

And quite rightly too!

“He is considered by many to be a ­disingenuous grifter,” they said.

But when our Prime Minister says: “This is wrong. No one should be barred from basic services for their political views. Free speech is the cornerstone of our democracy”, then surely we, as a nation, need to defend Nigel Farage.

To many, he is a politically dangerous – but in this case he is a victim too, victim of a new form of control… corporate social control – it is already around us everywhere …

We aren’t fighting for him, we are fighting for US!

A very personal view of the man who smiles in the face of hate …

“Nigel Farage looks like a tobacco stained, beer burping, pop-eyed frog …

And I say this with heart-felt sincerity.

I also picture him as an international sickipedia of vileness, hiding his dystopian distemper in a half-light of untruths and vomitus invective.

As I’m sure you have gathered by now – and after only 39 words of overstated lampoonery and downright insult – I despise the bones of Nigel Farage and his beer-swilling bonhomie is one of the lowest common denominators in Britain today.

And I have a lot of reasons for saying this!

One of them just happens to be his own dark art of insulting over-statement.

The difference between mine and his over statement though is simple… I insult an ugly hearted bloke.

He wears his ugly heart on his corduroy sleeve and is more than happy to flick the switch on anything that might shine a dishonest light on the plight of our world’s refugees.

The truth is, vulnerable people, many fleeing for their lives, are groomed by people traffickers and are put in peril in the sea.

I say they deserve better than a Captain Hogwash floating in a little boat off the coast of Dover claiming to be a journalist, which is rather fishy anyway as he has only written the odd column and done a bit of broadcasting!

Nigel Farage, the former Brexit party leader, didn’t try to help those refugees in leaky boats and freezing conditions, some with young children to protect.

No!

He filmed this stateless flotsam of   …

Surely people have a right to flee these regimes.

And surely that is not over-stating any case about anything other than an ugly heart pumping bad blood round an ex-banker who has a fashion fetish for corduroy and wants to leave the weak drifting too far from any shore.

#farage #farago #migrants #channel #refugees #deaths #sea #dinghies

Society’s good fellas use their dull knives of lies to play ‘split the kipper’ with my life

Yep, it has happened again … they are gathering at my back door. The lights of the road don’t reach there.

I am going to have to fight them again, aren’t I.

I beat them off last time, but I had to go into hiding afterwards.

Below is everything I can tell you about what is going on… it is something I need to share with you without being muzzled by fear … this a terrifying story about money, power, abuse, loss, cynicism, corruption, secrets and lies.

But I can’t tell you anything about it.

All I can tell you is that soon there will be blood. And it won’t only be mine.

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And they WILL NOT destroy me and my family.

It’s a story of crime and flabby gangsters, conmen and shysters, all the worse for the smiles on their bloated shavers-rash faces and their tea-breath fibs.

That’s them over there, though I dare not share their names.

But beware, they are all around you. They hide in everybody’s plain view.

Look out your window now!

THERE THEY ARE, LOOKING IN!

Others are keeping on going in dump trucks, in 4x4s and on horseback.

Yep, on horseback. Working class hooray Henry and Henriettas clopping down the lanes on their proud posing mares…

Wait!

Sshhh…

That could give even a casual reader a clue. Sounds like it might be a rural tale, about not-so everyday country folk!

Sshh!

I can’t risk it…

So, for transparency and fairness (and security and safety), this kind of gangsterism goes on in cities and towns too, and in any corporate thrashing ground. So, I could be keeping this secret about anywhere…

After all, I’ve lived all around the world, boys.

No, I can’t pin it down for you to anything more than ‘somewhere around the world boys’ … yeh, crime that happens whether you are watching the glister in  Vienna at night, or ruminating in a beautiful morning of elephant’s eyes.

But my silence isn’t fair to you is it.

And it’s not fair on me, the whistleblower who’s had his whistle blown and now is afraid to tell his story. I only set out to right a wrong, which could even have been a mistake.

At first.

But then the bullies started lying about me to everybody and dropping simulated pearls in a few diamond encrusted shell-likes.

Truth is, between the bullies and the shell-likes, they shook me and my family up – then shut us down.

And they left me in fear of just how far they might go to get their own way.

Seriously, I can’t tell you what part of the world this is happening in, little tin-pot thieves aspiring to be pillars of society.

They are the real good fellas.

So, back to the window while nobody is looking in and I can’t see any listening van outside either.

Let’s look at the facts – It would be psychologically, emotionally and financially dangerous for me to share this story with you now…

But I can’t tell you what happened, when, where and who these people are who believe they are entitled to crush the lives of the little man under the wheels of pan-global progress.

Who are they? I know, I have their names … but I can’t expose them, they are simply too powerful, dishonest, self-serving and stick their silver tongues down just too many shell-likes. I’ve got all the answers you know, documents, emails, recordings, letters from government officials and Ministers, and billidos containing personal insults lies and threats …

And it is this very dossier that brought about this very real danger.

Well, that and the fact I took it to the police.

Yep, that scared those blingy gangsters out of their pretend Bada Bing club.

It scared ‘em, for sure.

But only for a bit.

Then a few more pearls appear to have been dropped into other shell-likes, many under pointy hats topping off blue suits.

The police station door clanged in my face.

I’d reached my metaphorical cell-by date.

But, the way out of it all was simple for me. The didn’t tie me to a chair or anything – or hang me upside down from a meat hook – just kept offering me an escape route …

Masonic marauders in cummerbunds and lacy Hush Puppies, kept telling me all I had to do was keep my mouth shut.

Stay schtum; Avoid telling the truth.

Not stand up for the rights of myself and others.

Losing my home and my family was the ultimate price they would expect me to pay if I ever wanted to be counted again.

By then though it’d gone to far – I was outed by the powerful ones as an obsessive and a weirdo, a dope-smoking, hard drinking ex-Fleet Street journalist, a seeker of truth not to be trusted.

I’d gone to a member of parliament (they have them all over the world you know).

And then the battle got elevated to Parliament itself.

The word was out and the Bill I was championing was filibustered into a blank  stone.

A nameless headstone for a nameless man who went down fighting but would soon be forgotten.

As far as the good fellas were concerned though, they just saw me as a bit of a nameless cult!

Although I can never explain to you why every one of them – from detractors, horse-faced neigh-sayers, buzzing negative gnats, brain-dead bone doctors, to poisonous scoffers – were so determined to bask in the bonfires of my losses.

And yes, because this fraternity of old-fashioned, boozy, gobby, rolled-gold-dripping, deal-making, fat cat tw*ts, operates in every community across the world, people loose so much to them every day.

Often the sanctity of their homes and hopes for the future.

Because of this ‘mafiosa’ – and I use that term with a certain amount of nebulosity – I could be about £100,000 out of pocket.

But I don’t suppose I should have told you even that, should I?

I am genuinely afraid that these so-called people might turn up one day and kick down my gates and set fire to my boundaries to shut me up forever.

Corruption is dishonesty undertaken by somebody with power to acquire illicit benefits for themselves.

Like I say, I have a lot of evidence to show this is what happened.

Yes, I am afraid. Very afraid.

The things I dare not tell you about are like the final nails in the coffin lid of democracy and honesty.

I have been a full-blown working journalist all my adult life and I have exposed cant, pomposity, cruelty and abuse on a daily basis. I worked on exposing Jimmy Savile and his cronies.

Back then though, I had all the backing of legal eagles who were feathering their nests by protecting people like me – journalists – from the criminals and perverts we were on the tail of.

Nowadays, though I’m just that ancient trouble-causer down the road who the bullies wish would simply go away.

Or die.

I’ve got to say I haven’t done either yet – and there will be blood.

#artificialintelligence #media #blood #journalist #robots

A NEW AND MAGICAL PIECE FROM RESIDENT ‘SOCIETY’ WRITER ERIC LASTICK

Native Alcatraz place…and it’s Indian justice—and to what to be, in no more than a moment, as just that fast, the pointed sharpness of the spear— loses it’s edge to the dull of truth…and the thunderous Cannon call; as this cut of native rock—casts aside all Red’ hope, yet not Red’ will. A stake of an island base block for all Native tribes—crushed like anvils. Triangulate by stamped-on, Anglo law, between the filaments…and  the slotted placement of prison bars, once an Indian home—which houses the ugly and fallen renegade that glue this island so tightly away…and all of these hardened inmates at this rock, whom shiver in formed lines by the cold of the bay.

Great Tribes and spirit dwellers, felt and heard by the windfall…and the salt of the water, like a Native glove that has a piece of this rock. A spirit flock and pelican, long for it’s Native people to regain this granite space; as next, a prisoner’s dream and go-course journey to enthrall of the midnight traveler—-where there is no escape at this rock! The turn of the congregated wheel.. & it’s circle hoop, traversed by the villainous pass a Alcatraz island, in banded ring… as all lie still, as you are. Cherish more, even in loss… and the dole of the land. This rock still has teeth. This island slow, yet breathes and calls at it’s bottoms. Home of it’s rightful, yet cannot lift off the clout of Anglo ways…as it stalemates these prison walls in waves…in dead space.

(POST CIVIL WAR)

Fort Laramie: Old and new history brakes it’s treaty at the belly of the Sioux…and the cold heart-ed injustices of Aboriginal land at Alcatraz. The simple meek food gatherers of the Milwok Tribe reside home of the pelicans, until the governed vested wake of the pale and ugly, took to it’s ownership, looking down from the tall lighthouse to a granite display forming for military and Anglo wars…it’s nastiness of the water currents made an ideal home for the incorrigible…it’s grim still madness inveterate and inclined to stuff mass prisoners, to it’s indeterminate—with no escape hatch, just the cold of the cement…and the impending fear of pestilence and spanning of all it’s air! The Golden Gated is like a bridge that separates, not just cities, but the closing off and limiting of the Native culture…and Red torn souls…emptying of it’s worthiness…and stack cell to cell. Pack in the loneliness and it’s numbered ancients to a tailspin. Encircle a whirlwind of contrasted crime—too the sacred wheel of mixed souls…and their tempered destruction on an island gone mad! Prison guard sadistic enhancements in the form of slow annihilation, vanquishing of hearts to it’s wretch and scent of the last straw. Picking short and heading down, these angers of the Native Elders to a forever pain. There can be no rest at this stone structure. This rock is severed…and under a spell of ‘ever’ evil! No peace can come from such a place. No rest for a century’s work in art and culture; just the grim madness—and one glance of a shackled prisoner, as if meat rack with tentacles drawn by mad cap Wardens…political tails of a devil’s attached sewn-in-spool in latter day…a reprieve of sorts, to the island closing. Although, no mankind whispering of contrite…no lesson learned…only an emptiness subsides. Love once again returns. It brighten past all the rusted iron…the closing of the barbed up doors. The rotted wood and sour vine to which now open a tiny encircled light and orb. The wheel is love…sees of the great spirit. The Chief ravishing buckskin grills. The opening of the key…as love begins to center…and go round and round, to the wonder of the medicine wheel. No longer a plug to it’s culture, but a small rebuilt; if not in a physical sense, than just to know of the same subset of breathing room. Wipe away the evils to regain the nature of the Warrior…and the true nature—too the home of it’s braves.

THE twisted world of social media’s illegal name-and-shame game went into overdrive before Hugh Edward’s wife named him to stop the savagery.

One reason she took this step was because the piranhas on twitter, Facebook and all those other new bastions of Freedom of Lies were naming anybody they could think of over a crime that may never have been committed!

Professional writers have been condemned again by self-righteous wannabe-journalists on the wicked-pedia of keyboard rebels and misspelt hashtags … we have been demonised for NOT doing what these idiots think they have every right to do.

The Press didn’t name Huw Edwards although every man and his dog, in publishing houses across the world, knew.

We couldn’t do it – unlike social media, which went ahead and broke the same laws we would have broken if we’d gone down the same road.

Moral, ethical and legal reasons… like, for instance, any allegations are yet to be proven.

Yet following the release of Vicky’s statement the backlash against professional journalists has been outrageous.

Witness Jacqui Hames, spokeswoman for Hacked Off. She accused The Sun of using its ‘unaccountable power’ to invade Edwards’ privacy. She said the paper had forgotten that ‘there were real people involved in this story’.

NO THEY HADN’T! THE SUN NEVER NAMED HIM!

And like every other news organisation, the newspaper is accountable to criminal and civil law.

The Street was right to bring Huw’s discomfort to public attention. Reporting on the alleged misbehaviour and potential abuse of power by the powerful is the fundament of journalism.

But the privacy of the powerful is already protected beyond the pale – they continue portraying themselves as pillars of sobriety and morality while hiding their peccadilloes under legislation, secrets and lies.

The argument against the traditional media naming Huw is that it shouldn’t be made public unless something criminal has happened. But the story was about two simple things.

Parents had claimed their vulnerable teenager had a drug habit allegedly being funded by payments from ‘the presenter’. And then of course, the new failure of the BBC to investigate complaints.

The simple truth is that Vicky was forced by social media to name her husband as renegade platform after platform, blog after blog and twittering twerp turned the lives of innocent celebrities into potential hell.

Mud sticks, the traditional media is always been reminded.

#socialmedia #wickedpedia #huw #huwedwards #bbc #thesun

The Ukraine is fighting for the freedom of the West against a country run by one of the world’s richest men.

At first Putin came across as a pocket-action man with a penchant for sitting half-naked on horseback – for puffing his chest out like a belligerent pigeon and for surveying his outside world with cold lizard eyes.

Old Vlad the Bad thought he could take the Ukraine in just three days.

Now, it is 500 days since his appalling body-bag of an invasion began.

The general view today he is in a mess militarily, politically and economically.

On the other hand President Zelensky’s nation has got its head down and just keeps going and repelling the Russian army.

Putin and his cohorts are losing dignity, reputation and, at least morally, a war that shocked us despite it being behind the tattered curtains for years.

The heroes of Ukraine have brutalised, raped and murdered and their homes and cities have been looted and destroyed.

Ukraine is fighting for freedom.

In 500 days its heroism has won over most of the world – in 500 days Pocket Man is being seen as a horseless loser.

#putin #ukraine #zelensky