aurora what you doing here…..?

washed up on a faraway beach

lady, is this illyria?

the random nature of our thoughts

clusters of ideas occur

i lived thru biblical times

the procession of kings

a heralding of hollywood trumpets

keep on rocking me ptolemy

when i first heard some of my music

reminds me of my hometown

the deserts the oases the pounding headaches

night

stars burn cold beneath the glass

3 kings of orient R

prophets seers and sages

dont forget mages

sons of amazing queens

the sons of enchantresses

the scion of intellectual privelege

following yonder star

in the tent of a remarkable man

by the shores of the deadest sea

under a pink pink pink moon

love speaks again in winged words like little birds

the women approach

the men in prayer

the crew set up the gear

fender scimitar

i am a dark face in a sandstorm

the kings favourite concubine is tall and white

with rings on her fingers with bells on her toes

yeah we smoke opiated hashish as the evening cools

i drift on the currents of vivid brittle dreams

the plains are flooded by the sound of sweet feedback

the tribes exodus to the sound of rock operas

daniel in the lions den of iniquity

man the angel wants to free

the seraphic music those strange otherworldly sounds

the angel appears in a burst of silver gloria

nebuchanezzar  walks to work

imagine his spring day in babylonia

imagine the ziggurats the gardens

those temple whores n priestesses

imagine his fancy coiled beard

imagine the women he’s fucking dating

imagine his alien imagination

bad dreams though

what does it all mean?

what do all these kings dream of symbolism?

christ comes forth with aphrodite on his arm

he is such a handsome cat what a heartthrob

in his robes of love

with his les paul miracle

with his resurrection shuffle

on the sea of galilee

his own private junk from china

languid in a decked out cabin

his i-box is pumping bolan n beethoven

the bass throbs through my keel

my sail fills

my anchor away

my english fields like a gentle sea

john paul george and judas

the gig in joppa

jesus he sure can sing

a choir begins in the sky

a churning swirling organ grinds under the voices

the disc on tent

lose consciousness

i dissipate in the ether

music from the sinking titanic lingers in the icy air

herod nods beneath the palms holds poor baby in his arms

the monarch is all out of it

sleepiness sets in

a haze fills the far east

sacrifice in the wilderness

a fork in the knives

thigh will be done as art in heaven

hands slide down your stomach

a ram caught in a thicket the stupid thing

we were supposed to be on ten minutes ago

we wander instead for centuries