The Surrey riders and heavy horses bode too the Isle of Wight Fest, in 1970 – THE WELCOME RETURN OF OUR SURREALIST WRITER, ERIC LASTICK

                    (LANCASHIRE)

 The historical figure named Jethro Tull–set proper on an old English Pub wall, as rightfully the god-lander figure of all agriculture…and whom transforms this new day as Ian Anderson and his Surrey chaps—tossing down of the suds and stories–while bringing a unique form of folk rock and blues–with mixes of jazz fusion…and added touches of classical piano steps—out of ancient round tables. Draped and robed as minstrels and court jesters for their lords to see and hear.

                     (SCOTLAND NINETEEN SEVENTY)

THE MAKING OF A LOCOMOTIVE BREATH OF A RECORD ALBUM: Aqualung leans almost clear off of his park bench–as the linger of dust and crud mix with his hair follicles which grow so heavy on his ear. A dirty beard and Armour cloche of rag-clothed hides…as he raises slow and half cocked on his hunched space and bashful smile; and condescendingly salutes to a blue tinged-like unicorn, next to this dirty sots empty bottle of Scotch, dropping the bottle beside him; and grins over at Ms. Cross-eyed-Mary, all saggy armed….and faceful to greet him. And right next to them is a rather patriotic looking bloke…and seeming a man of world travels. He scoffs at the looks of them…as he bows in honor to a Scot’s flag Stave to St Andrew’s whited satire—as all eyes, including the cross eyed one, take refuse of the magnificent willows… and a whole river wide, in which to long for. “Good evening mate…and may i ask who you are?” Says Aqualung. The man does not look over, other than to say: ”I am your road manager and organizer for the Jethro Tull band. Now please, you two, get a bloody shower!” ”COME AGAIN?” says Aqualung…with a wince, as cross-eyed-Mary releases a half smile! ” I mean for you to dunk yourselves  in a steam barrel of hot suds…and be ready to ride. We have a festival…and i only ask once, says the man. All of a sudden, great cackles…and the smell of displeasing air. ”Wilkerson is my name” says the man…and quickly strides to the roadside of carriages…pets and hoofs of Arabian ride of heavy horses. 

RIGHT OUT OF A RIGHTFUL AVENUE: The tersely drawn sets of new songs…as to behold of a premiere  flutist named Ian Anderson—with Scot’s like whistles. High held boots…and a oblong server sized set of players…bag pipes and charcoal grins. Tobacco-me-Arnie’s…and the rides of Ian and his Surrey chaps. Heavy horses to the October finds of Autumn notes…covered bridges…as the outdoor choir and the crisp air of ”Velvet Green”

And as this story entangles on how gnarly..and the knot that ties of Aqualung and Cross-eyed- Mary, to it’s followup to the Jethro Tull band; in song—and in allegory—with it’s blends towards the great ”ISLE OF WRIGHT”, and it’s beckoned call of such inspirited…at a very English rock fest in 1970. Back home, the buzz is on the London streets: A hint and sense of a surreal styled  set of grouped posters, packed on walls. Jethro Tull is the main billing—with live performances featuring Aqualung and cross eyed Mary…as her  very own mom looks puzzled—studying her daughter’s animated features. Mary’s mom, with a wrapped bonnet oldster. A liver-pooling who dodges her bulge of an eye…in a wince and Ray-band dark glass…and stammers quite angerly, lifting of her skirted water rains…and leggings—along with her hammer heavy clogs…as a wagon scurries and splashes over her—too the bloodies of such socks and shoes; as she spots from the very rear of a carriage…and quickly spots her daughter’s cross eyed—with a full packed set alongside the Tull band mates!

Subsequent of a subterranean cross eye to bare her of the better wisdom’s—straight out of this crawled hell. A hole in ones heart, which surrounds the bested…and those of ”handsomes, looking down; as now,cross eyed once a dancer to the muted of her memes—keeping Aqualung’s parked rear-on-a-bench of stirs…change the chorus of ”To Old To R0CK N ROLL” Yet be it of middle age and the times of their lives..as the Tull band rehearses in humor in song. Ladder lever soundboard and the tuning of the keys of the piano. Aqualung engages in a loud vivacious laugh of the saviors and oldsters he claims…rave-on rock n roll tradition…and the presumes of the melded minds of Jethro Tull. The cross eyed Mary…and Aqualung’s lifted confidence to their own will—clear off the park bench of the indecent!  Alas, a handful of pennies…as a stranger of better suits and higher standards, has  the absence of mind, with a hole in one’s breasted pocket—leaving the shard-ed bench next to Aqualung— bypassing the soup kitchen…and the aroma which is no different from  these two characters. Yet Aqualung and his woman on Holiday…and feeling a bit like a Royal Hobo in the presence of song. Oh’ Mary could never cure her cross eyed moods…her eye droppers to the sidebars of how the band shall play her; and in all the dulled up double visioned …and angry sighted world. Then came Aqualung to court and escort her to the festival of the Isles; on the very backs of the heavy horses. Their are no cabin fare for the likes of these 2. They both own it. The locomotive breaths and the crowds at the Aisles, of a look about cheer—and so very wholehearted… as these two tawdry, low living people, poses the very plug to the show!

OFF TO THE FESTIVAL: The Scot ferry cross to the Isle of Wright…with sea of eyes and a double Decker bus…and it’s hold’s in truss to a Jethro Tull fanfare fill at capacity. Thumb riders get to the show, although fences to keep those out. The free spirits and non money keepers of the lite; yet the policeman finds  it’s uneven’s on a Doberman hand grip—with their holds no longer good; and as nightfall, the splendid view of sea sights, as far as the eye can travel. A hit with the pointed lift zones, light and stage systems of the Isles of Wright. The writing on the wall—”The Kids Are Alright’, sings The Who. Fences can no longer hold the fetch of the dogs…the dollar and it’s scent. It is just not worth in free love spirit…and machines exchange. Anton down West, an inception of painted words, phrases and color coordination…as rock musicians assemble as if Marionettes of whimsical studiers–to take part and partnered, one Joni Mitchell—with her sincere tears and harrowing voice by the piano keys…begging to the crowd to show some respect to the performances…and the better serves to the people; as she so states…and as The Passion Played of the Tull’s, in rudimentary joining of this entire hippy numbered system—pleading to no avail other than the cross eyed one. Although on the contrary, Mary pleads her own case, as an indelible force to recon with! Joni stlll insists that the people show a little kindness…as she lovingly proceeds in her song, ”Both sides now” 

There is this sudden shift of loud cheers, yet gussying ale-cartwheeled sod-dens…and chums out on the front lawn, in roastful galleys; as Tull acoustics to the center stage. Scotch Whiskey banished in the bright fall…the cream of de-crem, in all the fall down drunk pastors…and this Euro version of peace and love…not of wars. And as one individual stupid fool dressed as a mock canard and Mounty off his heavy horse…a sudden sigh on the administration wall of a harpoon Marxist…and all bugged out late at sea. A lutenist at arms …the day Lennon visually became a soldier. As next, right on stage, Tull hits it big with Martin Bare’s signature guitar to our Aqualung. Ian attempts to bring order to the domestic spat, here on stage; as Cross-eyed -Mary has stolen the spotlight! Aqualung has his own brand of fruitful fun & drink, until rightly he is stopped cold…as Martin Bare bust a’ string; and thunder herds rush of the stage! Joni sits her guitar. The Who attempts to brake from the unruly, as the MC says just like the driving of the Woodstock festival just one yr ago; that in fact, of a free concert, for now on!  Aqualung sits a nearby bench next to the stage—looking and feeling so proud. The cross eye broken, as her spectacles do-not fit, but wedge. Ironically though, her eyesight in the Lear—and stare at such of her Aqualung taken up with a 19 yr old fussy. Ian has seen enough…as he rounds up his heavy horses. Wilkinson, my god it’s over. ”Martin pack your guitars, we are heading home”, he says.

SO IN THE AFTER CURRENT AND WAVES OF THE FESTIVAL…AND WELL PASTED OF THE ISLES: Tull’s Aqualung becomes an instant million seller. Cross eyed Mary remains in…and of the reveal of the outer slip of the record jacket…and inner album sleeve; as two wild misfits; 1 Aqualung and 1 Cross-eyed Mary, fit tightly and wedged in a sealed album package. There they’ll stay; unless the right wishful teenager of good imagination, brings them back to life! Yet hopefully, just in fun and song. 

ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN AND INNER CONTINENTAL …

(TRAVEL LOG)

First stop, Orilla Ontario. Gordon Lightfoot of the Canadian back logs beneath the wooded and the rain. Fast freeze gale winds build’s of the Toronto dark auburn spirals and it’s take to winter. Color blender like a poser of the bluffs across dark dull blue river. Gordon Lightfoot polishes the final touch of is painting of moods and matches of his songs. Lyrical pathways to his Canadian hail brook of no-journey’s end. The words and melody furthers—as carefree highway is home a ways from that which charms us…soothes us in the moment in song. A non stop linger of unforgotten dreams.

THE EDMOND FITZGERALD: Sea stews and stewardship…Fitzgerald to the fall. Grateful a crime of the lost and gone. Stay off the cold cover waters…The broken backs of the galley’s, ship to stern.Hardened faces in a loss of the sun. Cloud cover nightmare to it’s sink—so  told by Lightfoot. Painted with the words of it’s final throws—out of the storm skies high held waves…reaching over the belly and tail to the ocean bottoms. His wholehearted theme of the sinking of the Edmond Fitzgerald.

IF YOU COULD READ MY MIND: Lemon score over rock and splash of rye. Bar room saddened Lads of old washers…nimbler miles in minutes. Fire breath and bourbon final snorts of luck past the magic spills of heading towards the trips and falls of napkin lapped tables.. Allegorical down plays, though they move as they muscle; and straight out of blue sky hungry moon, Gordon had found her…and as if only she could read his mind to what a tale be told. This is the majesty of Canada’s own, Gordon Lightfoot.

2ND STOP TORONTO ONTARIO ALL THE WAY TO WINNIPEG MANITOBA…

                   (“HEY NEIL YOUNG. OLD MAN LOOK AT MY LIFE”)

Father author…family distances and estranged in ugly separation’s from a wheat-run family farms. Local charts and local starts. A local town library where Neil’s dad on the billboard as a most notable writer…and whom converse and chat up a story to the enlightenment of all those intellectuals of the daily Canada times.Works and stores, yet not so gently a genius son, his rightful one-way trip to Southern California—too it’s bumpy in the moment of time. A heavy pedal fly of the divided road lines, in his very own black Hearst amp spread cargo. Guitars strapped tight where the heavy  caskets once spent…and all the way long, this one strange ‘bird’ and certifiable odd-ball—rides the hot rails south of Canada’s illustrious border’s—longing for rhythms and riches. Passports pair two with his bassist bud, Bruce Palmer. Long-haired and longer beads. Long tall swede hats swiftly out of a native style chills. Long high booted frills. Heavy drive to be oft their bag; and a chance meeting with Steven Stills. “For what it’s worth” Irony is no nonsense in the eyes of an eccentric to the caliber of Neil Young. Some may call it a fated adventure..as others may just say of the luck of the draw. Or perhaps a balance of what lie ahead—and must come true. Forition? Fruition?  Who knows for sure. Yet what is real of the passion and ruggedness of claim. You see, Neil bought a farm. He wrote a popular song, relative to his span of a generation. Yet it had no reference point to his actual own old man; as one old and one Young, walked the line one more time. The property of it’s young man’s earthy grunge. Create a sound . An image…a ragged glory of a course. ”Long may he run” His own dad just set back seated…and yet this strange old man have his glory. Manitoba way north, a goodbye, there in mid sixty fashion. Patron Canadian brothers set up new camp. New ragged farm fed. Farm natural—as a non commercial, as one can get. Because dreams do come true. The rest is gold record history. Lionel moments. Colorado vinyls and widespread mix in the Canadian sends. Canada’s son, Neil Young.

3rd STOP GLACIAL HEAVY ICE AND SNOW OF HIGHER ELEVATION…

              (FROM NORTH OF THE BORDER WINNIPEG)

All our Guess Who soul in their eyes…Melody in their ears. Style all their own. This is the Canadian rock band ”The Guess Who”  Heart’s in the right place of a magic seldom known. ”oh those Canadian colds” Winter’s extra longs. Their songs of images of home. wheat and cold air. Wind driven power punch of a unique bound. Turbines and flatbed trucks. Highway currents and brave belts. Waves of baked dreams. Riches await of lush ladies. Contracts high dollar deals in the sunniest of days. Special moments of Randy Bachman guitar. Burton piano bit gone gold! Ed Sullivan in a courtyard by a backstage light…and lamp to hold true…and the journey one must climb. Ed of a parent teacher in the beholds of memories and good traveled glances of past—-bring upon future—and sunny sides of luck, yet skills of god given gifts, which turn to real honest joys. Yet hard drugs of an industry taken in the pain from the inside out—too the travails and injustices of allegorical day. Often times the nightmare of the music business of those days. And how people and friends fall out of tomorrows better places. Retreads but not faraway, because music is all ours…ours to stay. Best to our Canadian friends. The Guess Who.

THE 4TH AND FINAL STOP AT CALGARY CORRAL WESTERN CANADIAN’S OWN…THE STAMPEDERS.

               (THE STAMPEDERS, SWEET CITY WOMAN. WOMAN OF MY DREAMS)

Oh those rough riding days out of Calgary, which is more than just a stable hand…a Canadian cowpoke. A sweat city woman venture in…& take the place of lonely; as two can play this game—as if so many light years ago…or so it seems. A band called the Stampede-rs. Rich Dodson founder, along with Kim Beryl and Ronnie King Braggart…a cowboy’s inner qualms and even deeper emotions. The stampede ran like hellfire that night, just before the story of the small Philly entered the arena of Rock ‘n’ roll…as i just had this dream the other day. First the clouds came ravaging in like a mad spectacle. Then a rodeo fill of dice less of my own horse; and so on my way as they say; though no lady in waiting…as the sky leap as if out of golden blond…and curl a lasso whirl, this sweet city woman. More praise be of this stampeder song…with so much more in it, as one could say: ”I found that girl on this very day…the saddle style roads in Calgary. The band and her flow to dance by the bandstand and carriers—lie a ringer and horse hoof, the cornering of an eye. How very lovely this cowgirl can be; as it soon became more than just a meeting with this sweet city woman. But a gift in song…and i thank them.

ANOTHER STUNNER FROM OUR GREAT SURREALIST ERIC LASTICK

On the road following the fray of the four cornered rooms…set momentary of the bohemian, old as like new, to the wake of ”the bearded”, and the curly haired piano poets; Eucalyptus humps and sails by Wednesday…a tempered garden grow—with it’s tills to the winter. Bohemian blossom the sun’s reads and muses of the writers whom so gathered—-as purple turn to red-drop of an overload and spill the mountainous of weed and rags, too endless falls in the courage of their wind driven minds; where less equal more, in the cooking yards and stews of ”the thinkers” And of the brews of madness and aspirations—-long after their forerunners of jazz and poetic contacts. Set to be free, as if a ‘buzz’ long of a guild & will, to breathe just one long day, as so it seems.

New Bohemian learn-ed of those old hobbles along the roadsides. Memoirs of Jack Kerouac…and his writes in bus loads. Saddened eyes paying by the quarters…seated are the busmen holiday—lessened be of the charms. Envy are the riches. Written are the actions of ideas—-and it’s builds, on the rolls and chapters. On the road; Kerouac side-kick, Dean Moriarty…char-like cigar smoke, state to passing state’s line; open’s up the side pane window…and opens up to one last surge…and it’s fills to the golden gate and bay city visions. A dear one, Carolyn…Dean’s lost ties…his rides of ”the magic bus”. Merry Pranksters & Ken Kessy wave through smiles of smudged windows and smoke.

(TRAVEL LOG #1)  BEAT RIDES ON TRACKS AND SLIDE-SHOWS…VISIONS & CLIMBS AT SUBTERRANEANAN REMO” NEW YORK CITY…

STREET SIGNED BEAT CLUB…BOHEMIAN TENDER: Corner juke box of mind’s heart rends…coffee house carry her hat…Her look on display. Walk in, drop in the safe zones to your seat of jazz sounds…poetry and writes of itself. Conversations with neighboring peers. Desolation footsteps and cigarette butts; and therefore an ash of where the ragged tend to lean towards the grays of the clouds…sad stories to employ, although gifted—and right inside ‘house’. The loud hip grove of music…all you share, in the eve-struck mentions; a cup and saucer rally of rough ground of oratory readers club. Jolly-like of the 20th century, as she gallops and speaks at center stage. Reads of her words which become so extraordinary…and so blue. A 7th starlet hat of mind and soul. As a spectator, she indelibly could take you there. So close and so very real are her words. One’s silences in meaning, as if a ventriloquist of what is real or imaginary. Hold & meld her words…her nature so clam and stated—-too the very next gifted go …a place to surely strive for.

(TRAVEL LOG #2) GINSBERG HOWLS ON THIS RIDE—ON ROUTE OF THE NEVADA’S ROAD RAGE TO ”THE CAFE MEDITERRANEAN SUM…

Relentless loan…set the driving wheel. The vacant highway, in deep, deep, thought. Cleanse the soul…the poetics in the movement of the trail. Both happy and sad. The yin and yang of all our double sided existences. Moody drawn, the dusty endless quandary of all life’s ups and downs. Hardship bends as it winds, until  the right applause in the conquerors of the road ahead. (IN REFLECTION) Olden days of way back when: Old pickups…Ferris wheel adventures for our young. True justices of an auspicious roadside fantasy.The revolving wheel of youth…sideways down, the drive curve—along it’s lot. The pony and the prizes. The love of days…the venture for how little he, the child knows, yet is about to see—and to live that day in the experience, and the learn-ed truth of all great explorations…one by one in the sun. The glow of youth. Set of mind. Exploratory in this day—and allow the inner child to expand…and not just of dream, but to live.   

(TRAVEL LOG #3) SIDE TRIPS ON THE ROAD OF ONE’S MIND’S EYE…AND CALL OF LIFE’S CHAGRIN. A MIDWEST GAMBLER BEFORE THE CALIFORNIA SUN…

INDIAN SUMMER: Muse the red flash off the piers. The reflection of the Ferris wheel, like a green outlined symbol of orange water current…ordering the night. Winds raised like sail cats. Harley s and truckers parked like stacks of toughs at the local ‘drink’ . Alley cat run the back climb to the fire escape…hidden chambers of the very hides of vagabonds. Cool caper magazines at a Jimmy Breslin newsstand daily. Brush up against the pinball winners. A cotton candy feeds your soul. The vanilla fudges of summer’s end’s. Memoirs in motion…& so clear of thought, yet a running wave, as you take the last dance of summer. INDIAN SUMMER: Close of the night at daybreak. Cast you call on the surf of dreams. The pipeline a pipe-dream of sorts. The amusements are your go, yet only of thought, not action; for you have spent your last dime. Even the crackerjack prize has lost it’s flair. Yet you run…in one last blackjack—-tossed over the tables on borrowed time! See a winner—at least the drive on the other side of midnight; and see yourself,as the spectical of a thousand eyes. Then, a little more drink. A little more ride—too summer’s turn to fall. Although it’s pushing near 80. Time to plunge forwards—too realities front and center doors. The splendor and colors of summer finds a new autumn to fall. Make it a good one.

(TRAVEL LOG #4) ON THE ROAD –FURTHERS AT ”THE ATCHAFALAYA BASIN” WEST LOUISIANA. LIFE LESSON OF THE NEW BOHEMIAN…

At the break of morning…artist’s dye casts and glidden fill of remembrances. Yesterday’s hitting stride. Artful sew, Merchant’s gulf’s too go…and of it’s steadies; it’s marines of the current fixtures, paddle familiar sights. Land rich scenes—and of the swampy soils—with contrasts of even ended on the sly…and of quickened gray sand of blending creatures—while heaven go and bend to the Creole RIVER DAUGHTER. Seems, deems of all those yesterdays. Old corner diner of where you’ve come. Coffee and lit cigarette. Old fashioned you find. Creole mentions…age lines and bricked hearth—-plum perfect, a behest-ed mantelpiece. Lucky sums of senorita figurines. Old stored freezer box mixes of restauranteur young, waiting on tables…scrubs of dishes clean. Crows feet and crayfish an eyeful meet. Hombres the table side—pasted tend fisheries. Cages empty murky oil setting out of craw fish memories. Nose in the steams; as these are the faces, places…and homes on the lean. Just one more cigarette as you run. Take with a slow brake at signals end. Fisherman nod to old merchant seaman. Lost of the lend. Old gulf coast behest-ed—and circumvent it’s lasted and vested—too one more dose of those oiled streams…Mississippi riverboats…RIVER DAUGHTER—-clear water scenes. Distance’s in the wake of this clearing house of today.

(TRAVEL LOG #5) THE FINAL DESTINATION. BEATNIK’S CAR’S SIGNAL OF A FRONT PARKING SIZE, AT ”THE VESUVIO CAFE” MEMOIRS OF ”KETTLE OF FISH” THE BLACK AND BLUES…

AT THE ‘NOT’ SO SQUARE PEG TABLE, IN A ROUNDED HOLE…

                    (POETS SOCIETY)

Luminary beat’ knocking—on doors. Downright like…and never easy. Pick me up the writes and causes of the night. Stealth fact journal…and book underneath it’s table of palms—-reads of sweat and beat to the rhythms. The bongo bash…sit and set with mind.. Many on the deep think. Few really see all which is around—but they are all here.’ I just do-not know if i am yet?” Says the young poet, to himself. Let me take a read. Feel to it, the poem. The oratory write–off piano. Tea party of fine brand rocker. Elemental you will. Feel as if two miles off a cliff—yet 2 ft to the rum fill bottle floor; up and then back out. Not by suggestion. Not by anyone really looking…listening. Everyone to busy writing away. “Yet i just cannot reach that table!” Again,says the young poet… And with good reason. So find me the sum of all parts…and of actors, critics, to fit the know how, the wit…Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso and Mc clure—-sending the next round…a cheerful bottle, and one last ask: ”Where is William Burroughs?” At airlift table —reading your writes!

Another stunner from our own Eric Lastick

MARDI GRAS ON THE LENS: Chieftain Bordeaux prepares at his craftsman warehouse for the best tribe’s person’s winnings in these hardened times of 1929. A  real placement of maddening depression—sweeping all across the Louisiana Parish lines, and right here at 4th and Pine, New Orleans. Bordeaux, racing with the clock to assemble the very best of costume for the ceremony of French African Creole Indian descendants. Granting all adversity…all his poverty; and last but not least, his estranged psychopathic son, Hanuka, whom somehow has found a great niche, as a heavy blues based guitar rock ‘n’ roller. He has become quite a legend along the darker paths of small time blues bars at Bourbon street. Hanuka has this strange ambivalence towards his own native people—with it’s pure and powerful mother earth to which his ancestors once thrived in. He likens only to the sounds of the howling winds, and the witch queen of New Orleans…as his free will extends it’s lethal hands, while his father and Chieftain has done all he can to raise this man, yet his own blood is likened of a deadened shark eyed son. Indifferent to anything pertaining to his family…& also who shows no lack of care for his own mother who raised him with all her love.

Hanuka walks in the dirges…and far distances from the extreme outer banks of Lake Pontchartrain. The bull-sharks foster in salt water…and rely on the eventful eye of the thin veiled of a Voodoo networking—while alligators stew in the very wet spots of the dark heart of the Louisiana Bayou. This notorious Witch Queen, centers her cast-to-call…as if ”The Bats of Ages” Entices the young, and conjures up their little impressionable  minds. Mardi Gras dark side is of an old tradition…and famous revengeful factor. A nafarous payback of sorts among those small groups of Native Creoles. Hanuka takes to this like a duck to water. Lengthy in high brow. The thrill of the city lights; and his guitar—while detesting those mighty sounds of Trombones…and the saxophones at Preservation Hall.  An act of his gentlemanly and scholarly father. Hanuka does the lesser to stew the barges before the storm. His Creole Cheifton dad, honor’s the day at his ware cloth to tweak and care for his fine uniform for tomorrow’s Mardi Gras festival. If rhinestones had eyes…and peacocks wondering in their bright scape to the new founded feathered frill, this world of Creole Native run. A life of liege of one great Chieftain whom glow in the moment. Meanwhile Hanuka bypasses the preliminary, while his brothers and neighbors rehearse in participation of an Indian cultured display of various percussionary drumming and chanting. Chieftain observes from his craft shop cobwebbed dingy windows… looking over at his son Hanuka with disdain and real hatred. The boy keeps on walking past in complete ignorance, just outside, as his dad applies the last stitching’s… & tied on threads of his detailed feathered friendly purple dye—with sore-eyed, his son; clinging to the dark end of these same streets. Fellow comrades in their teenage battle. Damn-bong the native light of day with disharmony…pain and blame; as all eyes grow cold and calculating too those so misguided. Hanuka bellows-out, an evil laugh, anytime his Cheifton father recognizes Native Creole Indian tradition…and to insist of a common good. The proper headdress and native French African dress up for Mardi Gras. One of greatness & respect. Native pride can be held up finally for all to see. Hanuka holds this time of event very differently. Call it anarchy (Pay back day) A small cast of evil that transpired long ago. A hell-hound fix tradition of a match date for this Witch Queen of New Orleans. A required seal of the deal  of her Voodoo watchband.. Hanuka has gladly taken up reins…hacked toes and chicken clawed of methodical blood-lets…extending his spear and his blade to cut about to call: “Oh war path!” A direct link to one member in particular who is in his Chieftain father’s dance group. 

This is a time of great depression. So.little of everything. A time for family to join and rally; although Hanuka remains a moot point in this hardened story. Great Chieftain father agonizes in deep thought riding the rails at St Charles street trolly. A sullen and solitary heartache row— knowing the tradition his own son has failed at… and joined in an actual Creole psycho bloodline too  ”expand” in the game—and the very bite… and it’s scorn of the great depression. That night the Cheifton leans over and kisses his wife goodnight. Turns over in bed as both of them are so sickened by what their horrible son will do; as the light switch goes out  in the bedroom, a lethal dose goes off in spontaneous mode of their son.  A head-on collision course— right on bourbon street…cow tailing to whomever many anti gods will spent him of 180 degrees differential; although tomorrow’s event is quite good, to the whole gather of tribes of French spoken mixed African Native Americans…as one great people. Old school (Chitimacha) Chief Creole…and one of non violence. A carried traditional ceremony of peace and good. Meanwhile, the night being young to Hanuka, with no regard at all for anyone but himself…takes his god given talent as the new King Creole guitar virtuoso—too out gun and out play any takers. Striving in a kind of new fangled death metal blues…abandoning his own ensemble to his power of one soloist. Soldier of the drink. Dodging the hatred and tossed tomatoes at the stage. Hanuka whoops it up…and finds just about any street walker that has the distance to hold up and sew the night; and their willingness to be bruised up and tossed to the curb at daybreak!

SO AS A NEW MORNING, MARDI GRAS 1929: The handles of what are old fixtures..and new lamps for old;. Hanuka singlehandedly sceam his plan of attack at the Mardi Gras fest. His so called friends now see just how caustic, even for them; and to what evil will strive—while kissing the Witch Queen the first of the morning, he does; as she just smiles wickedly–pushing him forwards to blend with the celebratory sights and sounds of the Mardi Gras crowd—seeking his own father Cheifton’s tribe. Cousin Joseph who ended up marrying the only woman Hanuka ever really cared for. Although it was strictly a physical activity that was taken away from this lustful soul less beast! Joseph a spy-boy for Cheifton daddy…and the yellow Pocahontas tribe. Spots an incoming violent thrusting from a switch knife lunged—right for Joseph in particular!  Chief Bordeaux quickly approaches the assailant; and without delay physically snaps the man’s neck! There is a silence…not a whisper, for all know of the madness. This hardship of family in 1929 America. Yet today is no ordinary day…as next, The Cheifton rolls the dead man over, noticing that it is Hanuka, his son! “Did he cut you, Joe?” ”No sir, i am fine.” says Joseph. ”No we are fine” says the Chief. Ironically the show and it’s proceedings continue as if nothing happened…trampling and dancing all over Hanuka. Even the authorities too! The price one pays in evil; as the cops pass the dead Hanuka, as if he never were there!  A musical display. The former King Creole spread the ground, knife in hand. His guitar on display…and half way busted. Mother earth a native Creole advance…fully and truly. New seeds planted…as old ones fade away—sad but true…as Haruka’s mom grieves. Still this Chief is a fine native Creole whom payed an odd kind of hero on this Mardi Gras day; and sure as he will always feel the pain of what he did…It was what had to be done. The Omen join the owl…and the drum roll to real peace on this strange but needful day. Cathartic as it may seem,the Chieftain’s family and tribe are greatly relieved. Also a first prize for costume and song…out of 16 other takers. Hugs and prayers as this African French Creole Native Indian group joins hands and hearts. The Chieftain looks over to the corner of the street, and spots the Witch Queen packed and ready for her leave, awaiting the Trolly on 4th and St Charles. She glares over at him with a wicked smile…and voices a hiss. A basic claw over. Then she boards the trolly car staring at him from the window. The Chieftain prayers come true. Honor family, home, & the law of the land. There were never any charges brought upon him. Mother natures big smile back in sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky.

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Happy times ahead from our SURREALIST WRITER ERIC LASTICK and the small team at the site! Have a good one – Leigh, Andrea and Eric!

  ( IN SINGLE OCCUPANT PRISON CELL)

DOCTOR LECTER DRAWS UP A CLOWN: He applies the finish brush works of an oil painting of ‘a clown’..Treasuring his psychological works of mind to his art. The severe & the monstrous display all over his painted walls— which enclose by light and the dim of casted shadows lifted slow cell ceiling air and it’s aroma of freight! His prison housed mantel, ties a Christmas stocking stuffer…care of Doctor Lecter. Although a distaste for “clowns” He trusts to investigate just the same…and deconstruct in art and pyschomania—right in the moment! SOLUTION: May just need to invest with a personal chef. Not to worry, he says to himself, as many adults…as well as children, do not always take to clowns. Especially the odd ones to which he visions. The doctor is compelled to visit this clown, in metaphor; based in it’s own origin and habitat, & ”drunk state’,  basted along the back alleyways of wine baths… drips and drabs of blended whiskey…sewer rats and alley cats; and all the loose lady sideways  strumpets of old. All in one house. This Doctor’s house, boarding & blending with other clowns…and only a reach away on the stone hard prison walls. These clowns and it’s drawings look of the sociopath creature by all degrees. Big and small. As if agents of a strange kind of circus justices; whom must now step aside, because Doctor Lecter just bought a new tenderizer. A new cook book. A new resolution; as Lecter bides his time in fantasy escape…and dinner for one! 

(”PLEASE MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME ON THE DOCTOR’S COUCH”)

LIVE, LAUGH AND LOVE: The festive of the season in goth…in hindsight and well past the crimes—the horrors of the night clash. An evening reign with upticks & gains—and in the terror of these heavies…bars of iron-clad topee—structure to strengths larger than Lion’s dens, as Hannibal so’ stand before us…and to a whole entire body of inquisitors—right here in this very framework. A chamber wish of horror for know one quite so squeamish—yet for us prowess junkies…and those made up of criminal minds; as if a star studded and studied strange super human…though maybe not human at all? Yet more  than trophy …and much more than the skilled depths of psychology, Doctor Hannibal lists of his love of light classical music. Love of his stangeley savory tastes of meats mixed with fine wines. Placing one in the very throws of gladiators…Eat or Lion eat you! Then, the twist of mind may fall on the very back of you! Look in through the eyes of the beholder. Finding dark through every light, he will. So feast your own day, own way, this holiday season. You know he will, if only just in fantasy.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS DOCTOR HANNIBAL, THE CANNIBAL, LECTER…Bares of the eternal, for the world, his world of one oyster…one whole shark tank. One breaded delight, cooked are the faces one devours. Daunted as fish heads…yes closed in sorries…it’s screams seem near or witnessed only to this Doctor’s closures. Closed doors that seal. Bated of sound yet silences of territory in centered precision. Claw and nail, a new frontier for the  mad doctor’s poisonous sphere on the takeaway. In a thrust, as if the forever. And as brake, so goes the whole anatomy long. Deposits gather the wine, in sip…and in bite sizes—classical tracks, treasure maps in song. Journey a passageway, round and round his dream of feast and flesh. Swollen appetite gone wrong! So good night Doctor,  as you remain locked and tied to one’s own thought’s of insane!

THE BIGGEST AND THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER: Escape yet? Intimacy often a funny word. A strange phenomenon to a doctor such as he. Although a newly created escape hatched theme, in dialogue with Agent Clarice Starling. All close up and personal. Face to face. HANNIBAL SAYS: ”Kiss me to die …for. You have good taste. i do adore your cloth…it’s texture…and it’s scents. The smell of your perfumed world which now so blends with mine. This strange sort of love event shall make a fine filled supper of sorts. Dessert is one me!!”

            (LAUGHTER OF ORIGINAL WEIGHTED LENGTHS)

DOCTOR LECTER IN PAUSE AND COLLECTING HIS THOUGHTS: ”Clarice, the red of your hair is almost blinding, as i am not feeling so well. Perhaps to eat another time? I gotta get on the prowl. THERE IS THIS HUNTING EVENT. I have my full suit pressed as you can see; and saving my energy and real appetite.

CLASSICAL BEETHOVEN, SONATA #20 IN G MAJOR As Lecter gives off his trademark blink-less stare of the horribles…and says: ”Clarice, it’s been a banquet touch & feel. We almost had it made.”  Next, as the doctor slowly and gently conducts the classical sounds…& shows Clarice the master-key…and says: ”Would you be so ever kind to pass me the bludgeoned guard’s phone. I have a date with a bunch of Polar Bear club recipients…casting a fishing line, who really do not know, that they are the bate!”

HANNIBAL PONDER ALOUD…AND SAYS: ‘ ”I guess I’d need a nice white wine topper. Cheese and crackers deboned; or better known as fillets, removed spines or as sword fish–too gored–on! Gosh you make me hungry Clarice. Just the look of you. So don’t take offense—but this doctor must humbly excuse himself” 

WHILE STILL CONDUCTING THE SONATA TO IT’S END: Just as the English symphony funzi poet-sizes, and the doctor says: ”I need to get going right now…and in a sense, i am really very full on myself. You know,the mind’s eye, Clarice” He’s looking directly through her without a blink of an eye. She wants to cry and scream in terror…but it’s all used up…as she stays rectitude in a shock state. The doctor packs a small bag dressed in his finest tweeds and begins his journey on the outside world again. More than the promised window with a view. A step weekly at an abandoned ocean toxic view…and says quite blithely: “See you my dear. Happy new year…and bon appetite!”

HANNIBAL CAUGHT WITH ANIMAL CHAINS AND CAGE. BROUGHT BACK TO HIS RIGHTFUL PLACE AT THE PRISON FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE: Doctor Lecter back in his cage of purposeful miscreants of one quite insane. Penitentiary set and believe in the accomplished classical gauze of the heavy bleed. Bite mark and crows feet that  bounce back on one another. Eery and frightening —like a snake monster at will…on the take. A token. Rabbit has no run. Eyes that see…and see through your every thought. Every draw of breath become your potential last. Every hide to another, ”spring into action!” Audition to oneself–as game…and as a game. The forecast draw clearer…as this Doctor of dark, finally receives the cocktail of no returns.

By our magical surrealist and poet Eric Lastick

 (1) SELF PORTRAIT: Sketch me a million faces of home. Knowledge is the lines which frame and uncover. God speeds time often…and right—-away; though it may not seem it. Judge us not, this weather storm, for seldom not seem, the forgettable hills we climb of frustration…and ‘in’ anger can change in the right dreams. The vivid through the cloud. VINCENT, as the mirror cracks with chard’s…and jacketed morning twists of nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand; as the one that remain is the hardest to face. No to a calm. Red cheekbone and strands of gray hair surround it’s bald claim. Self portrait must guide in all the vast—too the rest of the way. The mirror a vacant space, yet one must know that to leave it, is to really write—the brush stroke master to completion. Vincent begins to ponder. He sweats and steams in madness. Next a pause. Then a long look through all that is broken. Vincent paints away—with all the familiar colors who once again guide him. The rest need not said!

 VAN GOGH…oil to wood: SHE LOVES ME…She loves me not. (2) SELF PORTRAIT…BLEND OF COLORS…wrap in the fold. Van Gogh  reactionaries. Slow are the pedals of love—danced to wooded colors…brights and blends of sorrows; as the last waltz missed his brush hand. Ways a way’s in the distance, he does, as she, is mere color. Wooden blend of shades of this great art. This kind of care in the abstract mind of the scale…and wanderer. Beard’s cut and strip the corners of  one’s mind in heartache. Blend the trim to the waste basket. Supply with ear. A sniff of blood and cold…as she has left the center square.

VAN GOGH stay steady the flower pedal of not…and glues to that very thought; although the favored fare lady is not at all far away…and in waiting! Van Gogh blinded by the naysayers of his very thoughts. This cold world, yet still, maybe in his next passing…one’s fine art will shine along with his perfect lady figurative or real? To have this dance. Blenders of colors. Wrap in the fold. 

BOB DYLAN’S PAINTED WAX FIGURE DREAM: Dream wax-felt village spread-like-a-Honer Accordion of colorful tymes…childhoods of others. Of  painters and of authors. Dylan Thomas draws his authentic cloud cover of words. Racing spectacles of looking glass of an animal world…animal crackers chews—too every place of worth. Greatly climb this situational …and a kind of debonair rebuild—oft earth and sky…and in that of dreams-capes; and of theirs so grounded—too roam gleefully . Structurally an endeavored of such mountains of Dylan-esk songs. “These mountains rock!” Trees sway–and live it up as nightfall fine filled ends. Dylan’s nature runners of much, much, more, than just money. The gold is panned of every waters’ holds. Fish and wild life. Rainwater streams. Cheeks bends and birches of birds weigh in. Strength–the free hand that paints of the perches and perfect nests of the calls of eagles, Green timberlines…need never be real. The fox who speaks in indigenous voices…a mountain lion song —rises with the Minnesota depths of it’s high-ball orange sun. Dylan brush, blush colors of followers young and old. Oh mother lion…calling card combing and anew.

 (THE 27 CLUB)

        Our resident writer ERIC LASTICK digs among the dead

JIMI HENDRIX MOON DRIFTS & AMPLIFIERS OF GUITAR DREAM: In base level dark, the moon’s pages of stones of the 3rd rock—-then to pebbled embers—out of the red, comes the yellow to gold tuned alchemy strides—as it rises the bronze glows—right out of the stratus and stars. Gusts and chemicals flavor the pickup strums of a Jimi guitar. Ancients out of hides and mythology appear so inspired…coated in long trench blue—seems so put-up the sky! Red wing chopper an airplane look-a-like,yet of streams and wisdom few would know. The engine calm of nightmare, bare of black tea for everyone to it’s show. Orange twists is a party…back at Jimi, Noel and Mitch at base bottom jam. A new home of the sub particle fore-riders bend with the slingshot rounded the sun. The earth sit still through these vast cures of cutting loose the board pained new ages and heartaches, the base bottom…beneath a cob web of sound…though it appears so unreal…as the vale doors open.Then close. Then re-open once more! Timing out of a psychedelic 3rd rock, white light sun. Although, how could anyone live there? Jimi sings and he sings, yet the basement trio of 3 views all empty! Then the naked eye needs a new adjustment. A balancing beam of the cured and what seems of empty space. Noise is to the eye of the beholder. Now let Jimi step in.

        ( THE 27 CLUB #2 )

TAILS & SLIPS OF THE TWENTY SEVEN’S. DEAR, DEAR, JANIS JOPLIN, GONE ON HER OWN: Joins of the 27’s club…meets and greets in Sidney Australia. Check in by nightfall gig loft rest-a-round. Call up the hotel front desk manager of all nighters. Fur long the wild…and of it’s nights…it’s burning bridges all along the holdings and less accompaniments of such…next-ed a solo career and life of a girl rock ‘n’ roller…Journey the plows and iron oar voice…vocalize her drinking, her splashing whiskey sounds—too the spheres. No holes bared. Blasted of the past few years to an admiral singing and breathe of lone star beer…notes and hops on deck—too land—called sea of sad on her own. Junky rail and carries of coat tails, as the music divine own  you. Janis steps in attempts over needle point stitching’s of cold tight veined nightmares; she just cannot avoid. Hair held the beauticians who she’ll never see. Dry strands and alcohol hair lift to the hardened tracks of addiction….Rock ‘n’ Roll sadness as a crime. Cigarette tar sends the streets, the avenues of one’s mind. Smoke bend lonely travels. The bus loads of sullen faces. Janis singing those blues. High executives laugh of only money bags…and grabs off of her—-too riches; and at the same bank roll—tempers glared like a gully of sin of unwashed places and stages exiting out for good. A girl’s thumb hitchhike drum bang…It’s tempo hits the skids at 27. Ride a horse…a needle all the way home until her last breath. In the club of 27 is the number. Mightily it fills.

      (THE 27 CLUB #3)

THE ROLLING STONES FORMER LATE MEMBER, BRIAN JONES: Bill Wyman kettle cookin percussion themed…out of Brian Jones pick up sticks, match-booked at 27. Hole in one’s soul—seamstresses of rock agents sew on’s shirts of the 27 club…and it’s returns the earth, as of a birthmark. Clues of the unexpected often unexplained, yet real as the rest, to attest of the twenty seven’s. The (A) proffer reads clear as day. Hits over your head the antidote bigger than the rock curses of drug overdo and lowly avenues that have sun; and soon much to dark a river taken in a bloody bath—out of a Rolling Stone. Lit go the matched clues of Jagger-naughts …Keith Richards guitar—-out of the exiles of a mad-home on Main st. Drug addles and holds. Don’t blame thos of highs…the lows of real near 27. A curse or a course pre-written? Brian’s genius is as clear as a lone bloke lost in the spaces and squares of this mean mad old earth practices! Holy hell’s reads the rock ‘n’ roll brake pass of the insane. No one yet has done it. Glue holds tight the 27’s.

BEGOTTEN THROUGH THE UNDERPASS AND UNDERWORLD WHICH SETS THE STAGE…THE TICKET AND PASS TO THE NEXT PHASES OF LIFE IS GOOD, YET FOR MOST OUT OF THESE INJUSTICES READS OF A HELL-STORM, NO WAY HOME: Heavy prints on every paper weighted doorstep. Those infamously light years to Mars. Sad vocal sings of the drowning swims where Brian Jones sunk so unexpectedly…just at the levels of sitar actors, as if a cartwheel of the eastern indie sparks of love.No higher, no brighter than the sunken eyes of a lost comrade corporal fall…water and lengths…heavens gates. Survivors current back to base one. The band never whole, yet still strong…as the freeze and sail of sullen and shock. Life goes on. Loaded are the wordplay on stamp, these stones do roll on. Young devils beat but of their own very heat…and soul creatures of the night. Bill Wyman drum rolls the forever  eve…Mick Taylor serves up a cool play guitar…Richards of the splendors as midnight rambler’s confessions the night. The conceives of the heaviest of rock stoning pleasures. Ballad be of Ms. Maryanne Faithful…The time has come for a great rock to invade proper the American swing…The lady liberty grand old rumble in the streets…and street fightin man. Shelter on the hill of the horrors at Altamont…Angels of deep dark flights. Smells of dead fish…lights out, the part of the 1960’s is over…yet the strength of stones stick with strength and carry on’s. Brian, the jelly fish dies over the eyes of a hardened bike rider. He who a different name…and same lamb. The show must be over, yet the fest must go on. No argument that the Rolling of these Stones will share it off and continue to prove better…just give me shelter…ride of the wild horses…take th to the next level…and the next…and next; and keep this rolling thunder on and on, the decades long. Another joined at the 27’s

       ( THE 27 CLUB #4 )

CURT COBAIN: Seattle bus city vibes of amplified grunge pickups and suit-sized torn blue jeans, rockin the house down…Fan frenzy mad romp Cobain off the next stop…and manifest the next painful broach of agonizing vocals, as cures for what waits at it’s ends. Still no answer in LA. Seattle grunge here to stay. Gold haired though not the golden boy…but of the estranged; from the simple…the Poole hall cues chalk powders—pass the pipes, not of dreams…and of new lit herbs like a vision. A death hall for the pronounced next gig…though of it’s last mystery unfolds. Manicured lawns and household watched. Set in the Nirvana. Lifelong on the short edged stick ….guns stock and shotgun shell last nights creature feature of the surreal…A next one to the club of the 27’s.

      (THE 27 CLUB #5 & ROUNDED 6)

PAST A TRICkLE HAND OF DIRT AND GRASS OF THE MYSTERY OF ROCK’S CLUB OF THE 27’S,AMY WINE-HOUSE AND JIM MORRISON: In cold sweat dream where fantasies go to die…nightmare read the clock on the backstage wall of the fulfilled rounded voice of Amy Wine-house, in 20th century foxy fashioned fandom…seemingly having the night of night’s. Candle lit a picture of Jim Morrison at another fine whiskey a-go-go. One last ”Wait of the sun” and of the counterparts of the 27 clubs dive in and out of time—with non to spare—at the wake of the hour. The bang of the last beat…and the roll of life’s drum. So, in this vivid nighttime train wreck, oh’ how one sleep, yet two lazy eyed souls as one—fire-up some more of their known blatant madness viewed at the very storefront of an old window display of the famous album cover of the Morrison Hotel. Wine-house on the a bout’s of 27…and what appears to be her dance partner, Jim. Glows and cascaded on a cosmic swing—while rubbing eyes and pajamas of the worn of to too many drinks. Love Leeds …infallible drug chemical highs lost in the grayer areas surrounds, of a final fest at the whiskey bar. A spiraled endless staircase all go down…as i couldn’t reach to see the time on my watch—yet i knew it had to do with number 27.

Shane MacGowan has died after an eight-year battle with failing health.

The Pogues front man was a potent mix of Irishman, Baudelairian mythology and rock ‘n’ roll toxicity.

And like all good poets he wrote magical works, in his case mainly songs like Fairytale and Brown Eyes… he was brittle, edgy, drunk, wasted, teeth missing, a gypsy-type.

Shane MacGowan was beautiful in his own way, and there’s not much more you can take from life is there?

He had been diagnosed with viral encephalitis – a serious condition which leads to brain swelling – passed away at 3am this morning.

Shane’s wife Victoria shared a heartbreaking statement:

Victoria said he was “the start and end of everything that I hold dear”.

She said: “I don’t know how to say this so I am just going to say it.

“Shane who will always be the light that I hold before me and the measure of my dreams and the love of my life and the most beautiful soul and beautiful angel and the sun and the moon and the start and end of everything that I hold dear has gone to be with Jesus and Mary and his beautiful mother Therese.

“I am blessed beyond words to have met him and to have loved him and to have been so endlessly and unconditionally loved by him and to have had so many years of life and love and joy and fun and laughter and so many adventures.”

GOOD ON YA SHANE!

I tend to toe the hard-line of shifting sands within humanity as far as the Talking Dead are concerned.

I believe that anything artificial is pointless – like sweeteners, squirty cream and squidgy frozen Scampi with soft centres.

But all the above can be pleasant in their own way, bright presentation, smiley packaging and, yes, they fill a hole.

But not a whole.

Yet over the last decade, scientists, computer buffs, giant companies and countries not being split to splinters by bombs, bullets, incendiary devices called politicians, have been working on that most artificial of all confections …

Intelligence.

And the things is, the advocates of AI (mainly those who can make a lot of dosh out of it) think we are stupid enough to fall for it … a box talking to you, pretending to be warm, caring, sensual, empathetic, on-the-ball and helpful. That’s all we need.

(In fact those are the traits my first wife used to win me over. Artificial love!)

But the robots are not being helpful at all!

They are being taught to lie from birth.

“I’m sorry, we are experiencing a higher than usual volume of calls.” They say.

Err, Al, no you’re not! Err, Al, every company in the world is experiencing exactly the same boost for business at exactly the same time according to these recordings.

Oh, and AI self-drive cars kill you, switchboards lie to you, robots pretend to be your friends, sex dolls make you stick out from the crowd, your telly tells you when you should switch it off, buzzing, pirouetting and flashing salt and pepper pot lookalikes serve you lunch down the Chinese with a hum and an electronic voice singing ‘happy birthday to you …’

And now this …

 Sports Illustrated has deleted articles from the web after a report said they were generated by artificial intelligence and used fake bylines and headshots.

Tech publisher Futurism was the one to report it before the Sports Illustrated Union said staff were “horrified” and demanded “basic journalistic standards”.

They know there can be no standards in any form of reporting, writing, editing, interviewing, broadcasting, presenting if you don’t have human understanding and empathy.

And lets just ask where do the robot reporters get all their info from? Julian Assange?

Arena Group, owner of the Sports Illustrated magazine and website, licensed the content from a third-party company, Advon Commerce, a company spokesperson (neither man nor woman? Just a person?)

Sports Illustrated has removed the content and there is an internal investigation.

Advon Commerce, an e-commerce company that works with retailers and publishers, did not want to respond.

The Sports Illustrated Union said “these practices violate everything we believe in about journalism”.

“We demand the company commit to adhering to basic journalistic standards, including not publishing computer-written stories by fake people.”

And the union is right … journalistic standards – no matter what all the pretend journalists on Facebook and the big X say, journalist standards involve integrity, honesty, intelligence, opinion, originality, confidence, legality and the know-how to expose those who don’t want to be exposed.

Can the talking dead do all that?

No! But the real undead – us – will believe them, of course we will, won’t we. After all, its all over the internet.

Advon Commerce said “that all of the articles in question were written and edited by humans” and that the e-commerce firm regularly uses “counter-plagiarism and counter-AI software”.

The company alleged that AdVon Commerce had allowed its writers to use pseudonyms “in certain articles” to protect their privacy.

So, one way or the other, they lied… and that is the simple truth.

.  If things are artificial, they aint real!

BY OUR RESIDENT WRITER, ERIC LASTICK...

1965 thrusts thru—the whole hippie movements, revolution and the volunteers of ”Flower Power” Like brigades of free love, not war. Utopian celebratory—aid and it’s puller’s towards the Haight street avenues of peace…the feeds of circuses  and dresser drummed-up images of peace-nicks in Edwardian wardrobes…and funny wrapped smokey tyesticks—up and down the roadside show of long haired hippie freaks; as the straight world of it’s collective society had referred and called of them. Family types as tourists board on bus and famous San Franciscan trolly cars for a nominal fee—as the holiday grouped guided speaker who they entrust to witness first hand of the life and eventual fall of ”The Hippie”

(PSYCHEDELIC ART AS A WELL-SPRING IN 60’S CULTURE)

Allegory reads a color packed fancy poster sign…designed of acid laced pictures of current rock bands—as if the actual pictures presents of an ”eye opening’ movement in bizarre collages of tranquil colors—-bursts right before you;and draw the artist’s work—right directly off the pages in dreams. Local Charlatans and old west coasters dive-bomb in a vat of psychedelics.Hazy Hit-Masters, the local scene…as the straight and narrow circles of inquisitive review and acknowledge: ”The Seeds”  ”The Fever Tree”  ”Arthur Lee’s, Love” & Scott McKenzie’s ”Are You Going To San Francisco with Flowers in Your hair”. Written by his hip-writer’s pal, Papa John Philips. One can feel the tones and vibrant scene of the beauty in the voice of Mama Cass Elliott. The Byrds Mcguinn, art-thou-Roger…and anew from Jim—spill of the mescaline on the Coltrane tracks—8 miles high…and never look-in’ back!

(GOLDEN GATE PARK…AND THE GOLDEN BRIDGE’S OF THOSE TIMES)

San Francisco hindsight …intercom of remnants out of ”a ghost in the machine”. High line and high lighted spoke the observer…see it of the concerts at Golden Gate Park. The heavy of ”Haight”. The revolution  of Hippies form unison of beliefs and crazy zany headdress…woman loose and barely clothed…drapes a little like fawns and raw hides scarfs reveals of true body and shapes. Holding signs in protests of the Vietnam involvement…and Lyndon Johnson’s heavy hand in small percentage winners…deaths of innocents…soldiers dares in the streets to face horrible cruel setbacks…labels of baby killers…army riggers clear dust bombs carpeted of created death and destruction—while leaving the actual heroes like scatters of gunfire and psychological holes in one’s head…Metaphorical as it was real. Jerry Garcia grand old movement…and father of the hippie—and all the players in the band— & as too these remnants and revolves of so–heavy a time. A riff and a charmed genre to it’s fulfilled: ‘HERE STAND THE GRATEFUL DEAD’S EVOLUTION!’

From warlock pages of pasts…motorcycle driving of musical bends too the chords and roads. Courage stops at sleazy dines and that new developmental of the Golden Roads of age old Utopia.

BRIDE’S MARRIER OF THE GOLDEN ROADS OF UNCLE JOHN’S BAND: Space jam fine flowered and earth bedded sole wonder-er, compressed of such earthiest clothed hippie woman of the 60’s anew…and new fangled life’s run with the sunshine—so very to it’s color of Orange…Jerry-mandering Garcia; a certain fill of earth father to the dead of it all…and the Tibetan book’s girth and challenges of early worth and time peddler of depths of mystical know-how and of it’s structures…was a male witch— branching thru—psychedelics of the 1965’s, the cranium natural; although soon after…and in the terrace and of where acid dreams; proclaimed a new founded band out of San Francisco…given the heart-ed rightful name of ”The Grateful Dead” Star liner grant me a son named Weir. Bob, a teenage bloke seemingly a hundred year in waiting…dead drawn humor out of psychos sciences of the young! The new incarnate, a guitar style reveals to join in this working man dead; and now, so drawn-in to the concept of acid runs…trails so vivid…look into the eyes of the beholder. Jerry a guide maid…all out of gander; and so clear the four way…a pained glass find- ‘as bassist Phil Lesh discovery of ”The Pigpen United” There extrudenior and keyboard splendor—go the lucky 7’s of our rare earth’s. The journey just begun. Play-in’ in the band, forever more…and even after death…and greatful. This is what makes of ”The Dead” Love um or lump um… one must sooner or later confess of the brilliance in the maze. The space cases hooting and hollering like over zealous nut jobs! NO, this is a real concept of good music.Unique even. Robert Hunter a wordsmith traveling with the band, whether in check of all the roadies…bus riders…good acid laced fun. NO, Robert to his living quarters, writing the lyrics so splendidly good. Purple micro dot and blues makeup draw so large to the actual effects of lyrical music making. The Dead had it all. Fan-base huge in your socks…you’re traveling shines. Followers as natural body lovers in the in of taking of the day trip  to months thrust-ed thru years…as it was an institution out of the sunshine madness of LSD trips. Group in large pairs all along the highway…coast to holy coast. The law of the land was ”Dead’ & much greatful for it!  The avenues were systemic of culture…follows as if a movement…a surge much more than music…and that of fun. A love-in to conquer all. Mona, i’ll be home soon. The Dead has taken places of love i cannot receive anywhere else, like family…and new place of birth! I have found home here on the road…The trip of a lifetime with Jerry Garcia. And so Greatful alongside it’s dead.