Weather Report.
alan jones
Its that time again. Goons and mischief makers, scarecrows
and other malcontents, great balls of steel taking their lead,
or so it seems, from our estranged cultures.
New brooms for old, the most unlikely, now function as foes,
cold as ill reasons are fed to inflame their savage attentions.
Badology, the finesse of sciences founded on misdirections,
a youdoo mythology, too much for those who should know better.
That time in the year to be coshole by noise. Old houses
re-engineered to hide their shameleast restraints, plausible
lies designed in them firedoors, the bores snapping smartly
as I snore.
Taking its lead from a watcher's culture, hostile voyeurs.
sickly Routines escalating with these seductive dis/tractions,
from hostile climes. Untold bounty for our anonymous hunters,
the latest, migrants with contracts they must observe.
Falling for this easy plunder, they blunder, this temptation,
becomes invitation, just-cause to lure others into the same,
bargones with fate. Hidden are the rules. What you accept for
others, you accept for yourself. There be no room in this
circle for protests.
Its wanton noise, All night long - as I smile with an old
song. Others hear but say nothing, they have their reasons.
You and I not seeing, assuming so much in how we play,
circumstance confused in our naive ways with appearance.
So it goes. A season to build on the old - being careful
with our cheerful unfathomables, tearful as parched minds
tire of our barren virtue.
....
alan jones
Its that time again. Goons and mischief makers, scarecrows
and other malcontents, great balls of steel taking their lead,
or so it seems, from our estranged cultures.
New brooms for old, the most unlikely, now function as foes,
cold as ill reasons are fed to inflame their savage attentions.
Badology, the finesse of sciences founded on misdirections,
a youdoo mythology, too much for those who should know better.
That time in the year to be cosholed by noise. Old houses
re-engineered to hide their shame -least restraint, plausible
lies designed in them firedoors, the bores snapping smartly
as I snore.
Taking its lead from a watcher's culture, the hostile voyeur.
sickly Routines escalating with these seductive dis//tractions.
Untold bounty for our anonymous hunters, the latest, migrants
with contracts they must observe.
Falling for this easy plunder, they blunder, this temptation,
becomes invitation, just-cause to lure others, into the same
bargones with fate. Hidden are the rules. What you accept for
me, you accept for you. There be no room in this circle for
protests.
Its wanton noise, All Night Long - as I smile with an old
song. Others hear but say nothing, they have their reasons..
You and I not seeing, assuming so much in how we play,
circumstance confused in our naive ways with appearance.
So it goes. A season to build on the old - being careful
with our cheerful unfathomables, tearful as parched minds
tire of our barren virtue.
....
// its all so ultra ly fantastic , ultterly inncredible,
as fools follow scripts they aren't meant to understand.
unbelievable 'cept to those mocked by the experiance. //
alan jones
Pausing briefly, before it escalates...
Controlled controllers controlling, a odd mix of
plausible conditions and willful experiments. Actions
which might be dismissed as chance or accident, were
it not for knowledge.
Its those blind with spite, beating that drum, as the
dutiful deaf fails to hear. Bang bang bang, as this
engineered charade hides its intentions in conditions
no one else should understand.
That door again, helped on by spiteful minds, refugees
from conflict, who now lend themselves to conflict to
exist. Harsh types for these sickly expedience. And
yet amidst the routine of noise there is that script
making a mockery of appearance.
Anonymous would bees, hiding out amongst the ordinary,
or selected types who fit a puzzle someone else designs,
what would one need to play this game, what would you
need to see this game played?
Him up front slamming his door, them next door replying
in kind, him not hearing, them not seeing who disturbs
their mind. Me caught between these unruly elements,
both recent ah-rivals.
So it goes, on and on, because it never stops, it just
grows.
[Elsewhere tragic headlines follow our little understood
seasons, routine headlines forcing others to see, modes
of thought to occupy the near invisible. ]