Call us deviants
See if we care
Lost sons, wayward daughters
playin’ with ourselves in the streets
while war boys march through stubborn tall grass
and presidential pardons leave us bare
You can’t see for lookin’
To really start seein’
spin around
there you’ll find
nothing but
autumn rainbows
dancin’ on the two-horned unicorn’s back
Ralin’ electric guitar strings
all red, white and blue
pukin’ Brown Shoes Don’t Make It music
on constipated conformists
searching
for what they call the truth
In my hallucinating mind
no truth to be found anywhere
just hot poop plastic people
pushin’ soft-sell conclusions
all day long
Take your clothes off when you dance
Light up three fat joints
like Fourth O’ July sparklers
Put one between your teeth
sittin’ in the mouth
I’d like to kiss of your face
Second goes in your right ear
deadening it to the incessant flappin’
of your fuck-in’ right wing
Last not least goes up your ass
which you only seem to use
as a place to store your head
Don’t you realize
we’re the mothers of invention?
AND without deviation
there ain’t no fuck-in’ progress
Written by Don Iannone, Fall 1969, Tucson, Arizona
Poetic Alchemist 