There is something I want to share with you, a terrifying story about money, power, abuse, loss, cynicism, corruption, secrets and lies.

But I can’t tell you anything about it.

If I do, they will 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.

#truth #journalism #corruption #stitched #rippedoff #lies #secrets #cons #cheats #blackheart

Just a few thoughts about writer’s block …

I was standing in the gentle rain next to my old glinting limousine outside my rented cottage in the heart of once-merry Ol’ England. The cottage has stood for 400 years next to a lake where owls screech at 3am.

I was having a cigarette. And I was a bit drunk.

We were about to head off again into the mad wild blue horizons of Europe – France, Spain and Portugal. Time to dump the brokenness of Britain once more. Too expensive, too depressing, too racist and too violent.

And it was then as I listened to the loneliness of owls, I realised something about writer’s block …

I’d been suffering from it for three weeks and it felt like my career as a professional writer was collapsing like an old castle inside my head…

… lost deadlines loomed, badly written commissions, misspelt posts, poorly articulated broadcasts…

It had happened to me before of course, but my editors had been experienced enough to not kick up a fuss if my prose became a bit pedestrian for a few days.

It had happened to them too. Editors are writers and amongst the best.

But for a new writer, earning or amateur, writer’s block can be a head shot. It’s like your brain has gone dead.

I pulled on my cigarette and watched the moon go sailing by.

It had been a rough few weeks, our limo had finally given up the ghost and needed open-heart surgery, some relatives had been pains, some friends had been just too demanding, I’d had a couple of health problems – there’d been legal stuff to sort out – a house to sell, furniture to auction, editors to deal with, a new ‘show’ in Hollywood.

And escape plans to make.

I watched the beacon of the moon scurry through the blackness of the clouds.

And then it struck me.. I wasn’t short of words or ideas at all! I just had too much to say and right now I just couldn’t dig out the right words to say it all.

I wasn’t seeing clearly enough, that’s all, a wind storm of images, thoughts, emotions, dreams, humour….

And I’d forgotten that it’s my job to take take this storm of thoughts and control it. Control the whirlwind of my mind.

I’m a writer, after all, and it is my commitment to the world of literature to find exactly the words I need to get some kind of message across. I wasn’t blocked, I was thinking!

Writer’s block – it’s brilliant! It is the most positive thing any writer can have!

All you are actually doing is sitting there thinking in the gentle rain under the moon and the screech of owls waiting for the right train of thought to pull up in front of you.

#writers #authors #block #writersblock #novel #self-publishing #traditionalpublishing

Ooh eck! In the 60s he was booed, heckled and called Judas in Manchester – then the BBC wiped Madhouse tape clean!  But now he might be in Corrie…

Ol’ Bob apparently likes nothing more in the evening than curling up in his rock’n’roll slippers and catching up with Coronation Street.

And now the makers of the world-famous North of England soap have given him an open invitation to make an appearance in the show next time our rover returns.

Well, it might be a load of cobblers – an ITV publicity stunt for sure – and Bob has certainly left his answer blowing in the wind.

But he definitely has made it clear Corrie is one of his favourite TV progs.

He said recently: “Coronation Street, I know it’s an old-fashioned shows but it make me feel at home. I’m no fan of packaged programmes or news shows. I never watch anything foul-smelling or evil.”

Bob also said he liked Father Brown and early episodes Twilight Zones.

‘How many pints must a man swig down,

before you call him a man

And how many meat pies must the Mad Manc inhale

Before he can sleep in his van…’

An ITV spokesman said: “To hear that Bob Dylan is a Coronation Street viewer blows my mind.

“I would absolutely love the idea of him turning up in the Rovers Return one night.

“Maybe we could write in an open mic night and a mysterious singer could roll in out of the Manchester rain and do a turn.”

Dylan released his self-titled debut album in 1962, two years before the first episode of Coronation Street aired.

The ITV spokesman said: “Both he and Coronation Street established their reputations in the 1960s, both have championed working-class voices and causes, both tell stories with a particular sensibility and sense of humour.”

Dylan first visited Britain to take part in a BBC play. TV director Philip Saville felt that he would be perfect for a high-profile BBC drama Madhouse on Castle Street. Dylan sang four songs in the play, including Blowin’ in the Wind. Sadly, the BBC wiped the play in 1968 as Dylan soared above Nashville’s skyline instead of the rain on the rooftops of Salford…

It was the story of a man who locks himself in a room in a boarding house leaving only a note saying he has decided to “retire from the world”. His sister and the other boarders then try to discover why. As was the usual method of BBC television drama production at the time, the play was produced in a multi-camera electronic studio on video cameras. The 35mm master was released for junking in 1968, and no copy of the play is known to exist.

#dylan #manchester #coronationstreet #madhouseoncastlestreet #bbc #itv

Bears in Slovakia are finally expected to survive long-term – but 10 years ago there were very few, 71 a year were earmarked for death and we were scared of them

It’s a grizzly fact but there are dangerous bears in them there hills. And if one turned up looking for food, you can rest assured it wouldn’t be any teddy bear’s picnic.

Brown bears, like wolves, are almost never hungry for human flesh – but a simple case of  have-and-have-not could change this basic law of nature.

A human being, of course, invariably has food – and a bear invariably has not.

Bears are intelligent animals and learned centuries ago that it made sense to forage tourist trails rather than waste time foraging in the forest. Now they clean up garbage quicker than you can say ‘trouble bruin’.

In simple terms, we have started to domesticate the great European brown bear … they now see us as rural meal tickets.

And that’s a dangerous thing for us. And for them. The Slovakian Ministry of the Environment recently agreed that hunters could kill 71 bears. That was eight more than the previous year. At least another ten were gunned down illegally.

Although there is not one documented account of a bear killing a human being in Slovakia for a hundred years, ten people were injured by them last year.

So, it’s a fact that the bears are getting braver. Yet you could walk the Tatras for a month without seeing one. Keep an eye open for the signs though – chewed tree bark, snapped branches, scooped out ant hills, smashed bee hives.

If you do bump into one, there are some basic rules for survival: Put down your rucksack, don’t look it in the eye, don’t shout and, above all, don‘t flee – it will run you down in seconds.

 And if it strikes at you, play dead.  Truth is the bear is as scared as you are. All it wants is  your rucksack and to make its getaway into the woods.

#slovakia #carpathians #hightatras #brownbears

Leigh and Rodney extol the virtues and the negatives of people leaving their homeland

CLICK TO WATCH VIDEO

#HarryandMegan #Costablancaandvalencia #migration #Alicante

It is part of being human to want people to think you are absolutely fabulous.

Even if you’re just an Ordinary Joe, or a wallflower wife or the bloke who works down the chip shop, you want to be thought of as something special.

But what if – in the lardy, oily, fiery, fat-dripping confines of the chippy – your boss gives you a good battering every day?

Or what if you are a good wife?

You know you are loving, caring, nurturing. And above all else, honest. But in reality, behind your nice middle-class white UPVC front door, there is a war of attrition being waged against you by somebody you loved.

And when you go out to Tesco with your handsome, Mondeo driving middle manager husband, do you hide your disappointment, fear, heartbreak and despair behind a Benidorm smile?

Do you feel suicidal? But above all, believe your children need their daddy in their lives come what may?

So, you spend your life feeling lower than your Labrador’s feeding bowl…

Or what if you are Ordinary Joe – or Ordinary Dave, or Jeff, or Pete – and you work shifts and overtime at the local pie factory and get lunch six times a week at Greggs for convenience?

After all, that’s your role isn’t it ‘mi old sausage’!

But what do you do when you get home a bit tired – looking forward to a cuddle with the kids and a couple of hours with Judge Judy and the Simpsons perhaps – and you are met with a flying pan, plates spinning through the air, slashing nails, snarling teeth, insults and hysteria.

And your kids are cringing in fear.

Or what if your elderly mother has Munchausen’s and blames you personally for the cancer she had 67 years ago and has never shut up about since? What if your Dad is a drunken bully without a brain who tells you still, on a daily basis, what a waste of space you are?

However, what if all of these people are actually in your lives right now and have been for decades?

There they are squatting inside your mental health, using it as a rooming house for their own very dark hearts…

Yes! There he is, the narcissistic boss who controls your future. And there she is! The hysterical wife who controls your children. Oh! And there, having a Pinnocollada at the tiki bar with a plastic palm tree, is the show-off husband who controls the roof over your head with a cowardly iron fist hidden inside a kid glove.

 And worst of all, right there by your side are your twisted parents, those who deliberately arrested your childhood development so they could control you forever.

With all these demonising evil people in your life, how are you ever going to feel absolutely fabulous again?

Or even remotely happy.

Narcissism, in simple terms, is psychotic selfishness … a rabid sense of entitlement, a disturbing lack of empathy, a no-holds need for admiration fished for with a poisoned hook, a vicious fantasy and unbridled aggression.

Munchausen is also psychotic selfishness but these people use real and imagined illnesses as their weapons of choice. These people trap you like a fly and keep you in a jam jar on their nicely polished sideboard for their friends to see.

Sadly, there is very little hope of a Narcissist or Munchhausen-ist ever being cured – they never want to be, you see, because all would be revealed. Besides, controlling is far more fun than caring.

The other reason there is very little hope of them ever being cured is simply this; to a man and woman they are inveterate fantasists, liars and abusers.

But that is exactly what they accuse you of.

#narcissists #munchhausen #abuse #control

A true story of absolute horror

Picture this … a 95-year-old granny suffering dementia, is leaning heavily on her zimmerframe and moving slower than a snail round a specialist care home.

Clare Newland – who once, for a few minutes, was the ‘darling’ of the Australian nation – is in the home because she is very very old indeed and suffers from dementia.

The problem is that Clare has a steak knife in her hand.

Now, look again…

Clare is lying in a pool of blood on the tiled floor, shaking and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog shot in the outback.

She has just been tasered TWICE by police called by carers who were obviously frightened for the safety of others because of the knife.

When Clare fell to the floor with a potential 50,000 volts coursing through her frailty, she smashed her skull in.

As I write this it is unlikely that she is still alive. When she arrived in hospital it was discovered that her brain was bleeding.

The brave officers had been called to Yallambee Lodge in Cooma, New South Wales, for some reason not explained yet.

Or can there be any explanation in fact?

The early-hours incident has sparked an outcry and

the New South Wales police chief has said an investigation is under way.

Well at least Clare can rest in peace can’t she, if the police are investigating why they tasered a quite famous old lady with an average size knife in her gnarled hand.

Assistant Police Commissioner Peter Cotter told us that

two officers and care home staff tried to de-escalate the situation, before she began moving towards them – “it is fair to say at a slow pace”, he said.

But Clare was ‘armed’ with a dangerous weapon, so what else could two police officers and specialist care home staff be expected to do but taser her within a gnat’s eye of her life?

“She had a walking frame. But she had a knife,” Cotter said.

Family friend Andrew Thaler made the initial claim that Ms Nowland was struck twice – in the chest and the back – before she fell, suffering a fractured skull.

“The family are shocked, they’re confused… and the community is outraged.

“How can this happen? How do you explain this level of force? It’s absurd.”

Mr Thaler described Ms Nowland as being “a great service to the community and her church, very fondly regarded by a lot of people”.

She appeared on TV in 2008 to mark her 80th birthday by skydiving over Canberra.

The NSW Council for Civil Liberties and People with Disability Australia, said:

“She’s either one hell of an agile, fit, fast and intimidating 95-year-old woman, or there’s a very poor lack of judgement from those police officers.”

The care home, which is run by the Snowy Monaro Regional Council, has defended its response. They followed procedures.

Yallambee Lodge opened in 1995 and looks after residents with “higher needs”, according to its website.

Ms Nowland has lived at the home for more than five years,

#tasered #95 #carhome #australia #nsw

Our surrealist writer ERIC LASTICK this week investigates a stringed and wired hero of our time…

JIMI OF WALLS AND BRIDGES: Seattle island urban three-storey high…builds of a red house over yonder. Jimi Hendrix stamped and owned on the exterior wall. Afro and moustache trademark a stellar vibe of his guitar. And as if to see it, and believe in the mighty power of electrified slides…chords to dazzle the highest of Rock Idols. The winds and cries of  Mary. The cutting groove of the notes to measures. Above what could be mentioned, then more! One can only try and imagine standing next-ed and by the fire. ”Let me stand. Oh let me try?”

The drug  addled culture spins…jams and upper octave climbs…all through the hours, until morning colors rave over the cool rain of this Seattle sky. Cool blues dilly dally the mellow return to the sober hours of 9 to 5. Crystal and candle set the scene of a lighter smoke clearing…see thru it all. Best known guitar player… a double-sided sword of excess and self serves. Deem of a Rock God in the forevermore. Wade upon a cloud and streamers of yesterday’s dies…dues on this damned kind of life. Room filled pot seeds scatter the cross-lane traffic of copiers, light on the fringe. Trips and reds all over. Studio sending another lower climb to the flatbed. Jimi, all of 27…as we sadly said our last goodbyes. Honest men see the light out of the dark and day…as the ultimate Jimi Hendrix experience lives on.

JIMI’S JAMS AND GROOVES WITH TEXAS BLUES GUITARIST, JOHNNY WINTER; 

 Salt shaker peppered blues…white lightening electric buzz…black latter rumbles—warp drives of 6 was 9. Flash curtains—humbles in the wisdoms of connective chords. Owners draw the next playback…shake the groove. Bumble rifts off center stage go the fallen of nearly anybody else’s guitar touch…riff scales, the corner bar of attempting supreme. Rudimentary blues be the puzzle that jets these 2 masters. Set in the salt and pepper shakers of every high bridge…draw straight up a musical echo…and lathe highway—too the writes of the skies! Girls search like bubble puppies—so too state…& prized! Aero lift never higher. Swell ladies raise skirted climbs tall as trees… and as right there, the acid heads wonder which one, flowers and blossoms to the sounds and combos of Hendrix; and of Texas Blues man Winter. Tuck-in you’re guitar strings like dances…white hairs under his hat. Paisley purple, ” wince worry” clear out of the fog. And so roll the band of Gypsy’s. The firewater applause, equal the pain of the abuser. Purple haze is a luxury—right before the jet engines spark loud of the next town. Salt and pepper know no reason to live a hundred years…buzzes in the seasons of the best grown herbs…finest brand whiskey and chaser at midnight. Army ladies of night-winds and carriers. ”I’ll bet lashes and silk stockings are the real curl…verses a phoney terrible establishment, centered in take-down…and in all its sinister greed. Salt shaker peppered blues enters of the heated lasted nights!” MISTER JIMI, WHEN THE MUSIC FAILS, HOLD BACK THE MOUNTAIN…MOUNTAINS OF DREAMS: Hendrix on the fires of amber forever blues. His Afros and curly spreads of creative crosstown minded eyes. 3rd strums of eyed requests. Nailed down the heavens…& it’s early arrives. Summit likes of fingers fretboard surreal. Color and comic, the science fiction—trucking—high fly of noted know-how for the earth’s below. Beggar dance, the band of Gypsy’s. Run and play…skipper claws, the cowers of the muse. The takes of industries. Jimi about to play by the Whiskey. Monterrey seems of so long—too a couple years stay. Well stone imaged of the glory of bonfire burning a guitar, held upside and reverse down. Sign it, and sing of a man finding his highest of highs—over the Waterfront of music man, in humble spades. Money only a toy to the willing. Music business a profit margin sum for one. Musician go back to play. Fury are the managers that say how and when you send. Money hungry old hogs in the pile of loot. Poor boy of only money wealth, is not rich at all! Jimi knew the mission only accomplishes by bettering the stakes. ‘For Christ sakes, it was his music. HIS art, in which to never surrender to the establishment, and it’s center core.” Only reachable bottom lines. Then, the music fails. Falsehood is no honor amongst thieves ; and of those in the watchtower. Dig me up a new theme of joy to our creator Jimi, the music you can. The music you really want to make, beyond the top 40 chart benders. Barrels aim of a stagnant end. No more reaches past the simple minds, when a bigger picture yearns, in all the burns of the creative process; that looms and consumes. High times is just short lived. Ample Ernie is in a hurry to the slag styles of curtain’s open draws. No slicks of hair dyed middle ages, done of centuries…depleted be of a nighttime  ritual glory faker

Rodney and Leigh discuss the Cloud over our society – come and join them…

CLICK TO WATCH

A three part story-adventure of the Doors’ vocalist, Jim Morrison

Another stunning piece of surrealism from The Society’s resident writer ERIC LASTICK ….

 ( PART 1) 

 CRYSTAL SHIP IN WAKING HOURS: A genesis on board. Crystal take wave…of waters of ship too sail, “the poetic” on time of hypnotic float …paddle to it’s form. Know of the ship…It’s  crystal insides. Jim’s world & all our world’s, inn opener of message, as if in bottle-spring”, straight through time. What a spectacular built ship this night to these forwards; in past, present tense—-too the moment of poetic lines. Future song among the generational pull of the seas…in upcoming days, years…and journey’s for all; trust and linger. An Opus ring…treasure blend of no end. Sea through channels, only Jim can see. Gem a lobe, an ear to hear—-as the Crystal ship reminds of almost Nursery rhythms for the sleepy-eyed wonders of the sea… as moonlight approaches, the gold deck of kid-like frolic…step into the night, by day…day towards night.

 (PART 2)

 PAM AND JIM MORRISON: Exiles from the forefronts of ”Rock ‘n’ Roll”

 PARIS POET, Jim Morrison, riding the causeway of tender leads—towards the northern river…and sways through the high hills of green—as the Ireland mind lends of bloodlines of time. In 1971 Pam and Jim rejoice a new life…and that being of France. Centering fine spirits of olden Bush-mills. Sips, then gulps too dances and riches, as boyfriend, girlfriend—too a new day, nineteen seventy one…as a fast growing poet on the lend; and in all the absences and forefronts of his command of ”Rock’n’ Roll” (When the music’s over)

 Love lasts in the craziest sly of the poet. The lion themed, in tastes too— not conquer of art, but to sip through these Bush mills—of someplace else, other than the doors that perceive. Allegorical be of the olive branch, verses the unknowns and bewares there of the unknown soldier” An old admiral helper-hand of Southeast Asia’s, ”Gulf of ton-waters”.  ”NO NEVER”, as Jim once implied, to which his very own kind…and it’s bloodline were all distant dead, in these eyes that which beholds! Next, as the Ray Manzarek organ streams of consciousness. The lighten fire. The pyre of  sorely and sour things…and all love of passion. The very riches of family and friends… disclosed a special bin of all those yesterday events. And rather close— of the doors that perceive. His obsession of sex and death, as a black magic—too never draw a line in the hot of the sands—too those infatuation dances on the hot rails…circuses and lewd drinking ends, in a Dade county Florida, Cooper-rue in Blue. A coat and badge beat squad …as Jim sung for it’s shorten everlasting …when the music’s over”.

Jim’s main squeeze, Lady love, Pamela…a sudden whelp of the heavies—too those so— sad stamped, hit travels. The frequent of the Paris winds. Odd ball poet’s themes—too a needle tracked infernal! Metaphor is all to real—too her man’s end! The bathtub last breath…pulse reads of negative zero. Cold stored wrappings of luke warm to cold of Morrison’s last day. The strange of the Paris twists. Turns a final hedge stone—as the alley cats great groupings…and uneasy stay-ed of the poet… and legendary rocker at the grave grounds of these Paris holds!

(PART 3)

 CATS OUT UNDER THE STARS: Quarter till three. Quarter moon, deep cat-nip slumber…weigh the night—order-up the melatonin. The vitality of all those yesterdays. Hallowed flare…buried tall tale weeds where dreams still, ”mean to mend”. To fix in a darkened furred dream.

DREAM SEQUENCE…imagine a typical back alley-way; as i, the whole embodiment of a Tom cat—and right along with another, to the prowling  and poking out of the cold darkened alleyways of an Urban setting…as 2 brash fireballs—leap up the fire escapes… and back sections of the poorer classes. Jim, my Tomcat colleague in crime, fearlessly takes too the very top of a dumpster, in a rather self driven dive-bomb effort; rummaging through discards of stale bread and salad sides. Fish-heads staring back at him .. by an old corner restaurant. Tomcat Jim, with eyes in a line of a ”dozen-set” of fish eyes, that gleam in the night watch, of a burly grimy dressed— a white smock man, ditching trays of dried egg—while Jim goes face down in his whiskered malaise, at his first-come, first-serve, wildcat indulgences. This gruff looking man begins to smack the handle end of his broom, attempting too shoo away, Jim, the Tomcat…who runs from harms way.A restless yell of ”Varments” ”street thugs” ”Misfits” Echos the backstreets we run… alongside the familiar face of Jim Morrison, rock star legend, in actual cat form! Check paw too tail, as two fleeting cats on the go…riders of a hateful human storm. Sledging through life’s rains. Towering lions allude the attack, yet scavengers that we are, as. Morrison begins to stir crush and gutted by claw of the opportunity of a back alley hunt… with 2 cats on the move—too have our fun, tangled in the mischief all of the night, in a cat nip trove…dizzying and drunk-like fun!

SEND FOR ME, MY OWNER…just not tonight. Cats out under the stars. Street derelicts, grease filed walls. Sips of cheap dirt wine. A bum loses over a ”pop can” of gravy train, as Morrison quick-step and a cat arm wave…as he celebrates with his tooth grip can in mouth! The mean loud and stumble bum, one by one too their own cornered expressions—and share in bottle breath…reek and bottled of ten land bastards of blackened dark gray, as they are complicated. Gray ticks in the stillness and ugliness—where film noirs,  of like dreams. Serotonin at twelve after three…leaked are the thoughts, fears and visions of two poets in two distinct parallel realms! Seems so real, of all the endeavors of ink pages…paper leaflets scatter, as Jim, the Tomcat, drinks from a pet bowl of a last days whiskey, in the vanities and throwaways of all yesterdays. Self hate berate and minimizes a belief and self worth. Call it psychological cat warfare—too the stirs and fangs. Some may call it witchery of such high intensity. The intellectual best suited ways of upping the ante. Yet deep down in this drenched wine bath dream, a literary angle turn to a beggar of the soul, in realms and back alleyways, never writing quite up to speed. Esoteric in an inescapable bitter claw…as cats drop their pens, doing the better part of nine lives. Canterbury muse pass down the flash pan alley—two poet cats who fight and fester…and in need to put a lid to an under tail. Two cats raise coattails of poets past…as 2 cats under the stars. In Dreams…in wonders. Though a plain of existences to learn from…and wake the day with a simple reason and joy of the written word—too it’s truest sense in one good night sleep. When the music’s over, turnout the lights.

#jimmorrison #thedoors