On Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll
I was a cute foreigner,
Pounding nails in the sleeve-notes of Oregon.
You retort, "Who cares?"
I indulged, ocasionally, in so much of 1966.
The Skin Shop; Joint Venture; House of Desperation,
The door to the trouble.
Who could ask for culture?
Free speech comes from jail.
Without their real faces obscured by the police,
The crowd turned ugly.
The rocks and wine were smashed.
And the drugs *** .
Standing among other people who wanted to do mayhem.
It crucially depended on nude biker babes,
Savagely beating a 57-year-old real estate developer.
This is simplicity itself.
Conservatives want to change, and I understand,
Individual liberty and a generally benevolent anarchy.
The Communications Decency Act was murdered with moral questions.
Proceed from Janis Joplin to free markets.
It's most interesting to live with the undesireable people,
The world's greatest thinkers on your socks.
The wisdom of monastic withdrawal from the time you're having.
Mana from the hippies hanging out.
I still care about sex,
Rather, it became my passion.
A more efficient mechanism in vinyl hot pants.
Indifference helps me to perform fellatio.
It was sex. It was ridiculous.
I'm uncomfortable with rocks, and bottles followed,
That old gospel song, "Cocaine."
They did heroin, somewhat riddle-like.
This Journal of Shit.
No aches, no pain, no weight to complain about.
A little, unexamined life.
I consider them, gathered in tight jeans, and want innocence.
