Cripple and His Voice

Cripple, cripple
Sings in the sun
Underneath a peach tree
Dawn, it's a beautiful image

Cripple, cripple
A starfish said he sang well
Birdgulls fly near him
His charm is unquestionable
Cripple, cripple
Searching for his voice in the skies

Soon the night shall fall
Birdgulls shall die
Fly no more, they will
Cripple, cripple
Hoping for someone to listen to him sing...
Hoping for someone in the after-life
Oh such sorrow
Cripple, cripple
Singing underneath a peach tree
In his garden, in his garden

My Brother of Jazz

I think I once had a brother
I do not recall having one
Maybe he was just imaginary, and the songs I heard were nothing more than our mother going wild after crummy sex
Maybe he was a Jazz musician
Or maybe he died in Chicago
Chicago, oh what a town
Of music, of joy
Brother liked Jazz
Brother liked the Blues
Brother liked women with no shoes
Brother liked crummy poems, such as this one
But brother was not real
And so he died the moment he was born
Perhaps he was a Jazz musician
Or a baby with no hair
But a brother he was to me

The Blues of the French

His father was a street wasted junkie
His mother a whore without any teeth
In Memphis he played the blues
And Booker T listened to him every Friday, in a crummy bar, in a crummy street
The police wanted to throw him in jail
Elvis wanted to slit his throat open
But the town of Memphis protected him
In love, and drugs that fucked his inner-self
Or whatever was left of his brain
Jake sang, Elwood sang
The French guy only played the blues
Even his eyes were blue
Even his nails were blue
What a wasted life, what a dying bastard
For so long he played, for so long he burned in self inflicted torment
'Till finally came the day
In which he complicated the blues
And pissed all over his father's face
Mother screamed, mother was a whore
So why the fuck do we care for this story?

Woodstock Blues

Cowboys and assholes were running with the wind
For your hair, for you my sister of blood
Down by the river banks, you washed your hair with a nobody as company
Half of the assholes were mad, the other half killed themselves
The blazzing sun is a warrior, the protector of the royal beuty
Or whatever that must mean

Sister why won't we go back home?
To hear something more than vultures in the middle of the confusion
The sun rises and goes down with your body next to mine
It get's stranger every day

Becky, Woodstock is dead
We could be the last one's standing with simple lyrics
And we fell alone, perhaps

With a flower in your hair, your voice won't be in vain
Darling, let's go back home
To where guitars can sound freely in the afternoon wind
And you, my sister
Be my love, my right-arm, my singer of the Woodstock blues

The Road To God Knows Where

My dog is thirsty and my cigarrete is just like your lovely existance.

Hello Becca, I think that I've met you somewhere along the Road to God Knows Where, along the digs of Mexico, and the desert of sound.

Down the ruins I hear the rain, in the stone, hitting the windows.
Now it seems like it is gone.
But the storm calmed the sea, and the cracks in the ships weren't mended.

Rain poured in my bedroom.
Rain took away my wife, drowned her with it's waves of envy and psicotic murders.
Just like in real life, the storms are only humans.

I think I saw you the other day.
In the corner of a hotel, begging for some holy poker card.
With a bottle of whisky and a whip for those you feel like making crawl.
Your shadow was wicked
So as your skin.

Oh son, she is your mother.
Oh friends, she is the work.
That art excluded to the depths of a shit bucket.

Holy Stranger Song

You knew that strangers watch you from an orange tree
Leaning on your window and calling for your body
As if he wanted you to ignore your dreams
Rusted games he plays, and dusty hands he had
And while he talks you notice he is tired

He comes in, and you tell him to sit down
By your bed, or by your secrets
You speak about some rivers that cross cemeteries
He smiles at you, so wild and weary
Suddenly you brake something
And the stranger departes, in a fury of confort

Oh dear, this is not a song

Hideous Deserts of Mexico

With grace and spiritual guidance, how lucky we were
We got the money, and danced over the bodies of the ravens
In the jail house room the chains hit our skin with fury
It struck me in the head
Hanging from the ceiling
And up we jumped
Broke the jail gates, down the Paradise Avenue of Hell
Only down we could go
For a punishment we do not deserve
Oh my, oh my
We were cut of our feet
Our eyes in a lake of flames burned
Grim-reapers laughing at us
We were doomed from the start
Blacker than our desires