This is my own translation of some parts of my autobiography "I missed Woodstock" published in Sweden 2009.
The adult world is increasingly becoming
something completely foreign,
repugnant and totally unacceptable.
Broken points of reference
glitter irresistibly on wet tarmac.
It is 1966.
It's a new time,
in a new world.
New births flow
with new eyes
through air
that looks at I.
Truths are formulated
in dark, smoky clubs,
where the wildest of gangs
raise long cheeky fingers
to the parental sky.
Something all to strange
creeps in a slow manner
deep beneath my bare skin.
Everything is intense
days are bright springboards
toward the tomorrows mystery.
There are oases of life
abounding in the vastness
of the labyrinthal city.
There is immediate experience
and pure existence.
Parks, cemeteries,
strange green courtyards
and the high points of the city,
become great magic places
where I light my chillum.
Sparrows speak my language
and bright gulls
have names of their own.
Each plant and shrub
is a part
of a present paradise.
***
Seasons follow me
and the desire for a new, bigger life,
shapes an expectation,
a trampoline.
It also generates impatience
that will run out of control
and set fire to convention.
Citystreets call with wet asphalt,
condemned houses
and a smell of freedom.
Strangers provide
new dreams
and a new belonging.
***
***
One night all references
suddenly disappear.
A disintegration, a blankness
a vast emptiness
I become.
I have mixed amphetamine
LSD, hash and rommelar.
Different voices come to life
voicing
an impossible rebirth.
***
Darkness disappear.
Penetrating light,
empty and painfully naked,
reveals the observer
without anything to say
in the rear seat.
I am reduced
to a pale reflection
of surrounding movements,
a mechanical puppet,
the empty bounce of an echo.
I follow so many trains.
I am abandoned every time.
That night
the door is kicked in.
Together with Yoshie
I am whisked away in the night.
She tries to flush the dope
down the toilet, but fails.
***
Sometimes I surface
in the Sultan Ahmed police station
where I sit on the concrete floor
of a huge run down cell,
with several balconies of wood rising.
At the top the wealthy sits,
drinking tea and eating well,
looking down the wooden stairs.
***
It does not help
that I do not agree.
It's a specific truth
the police is looking for,
they want a scapegoat
for the murder of four policemen
a few days earlier
when an American
tried to shoot himself free
from a the police station.
He was shot down from the roof
where he made his last stand.
He was Tom Mix
in the Turkish papers.
"It will only get worse",
says the male
Turkish interpreter in English.
"The police chief does not believe in you.
Tell us now. It's best for you."
When I maintain
that the smoke is only for personal use
I am pushed down on my back,
my feet are tied with a rope
to a narrow wooden stake.
two policemen
at the stake's ends
lift my feet.
When the chief of police
starts hitting the soles of my feet
I just think it is
a silly place to hit.
The skin under feet is thick.
Soon the sole area
is meat screaming for oblivion.
I tell them everything they want to hear.
They help me to stagger back
to the spacious cell.
***
***
We move like a family,
a collective
of creative men.
Antonio from Fano,
artist and poet;
India bum and biennale king,
beatnik and freak
gives me days full of
direction and content.
Ronald, long and colored
from Chicago,
Black Panther and rabid poet,
often reads
his poetic manifesto aloud
about the black man's
strength and beauty;
of the white man's
decadent and dying society.
George from Zurich
came recently from an ashram in India
where he had studied the Vedas
and Russian mystics.
And Koji Morrishita,
the man with an eye for
feelings and motions of the moment
and the rolling thoughts
that follow like sweet thunder,
the artist that finally
gave me the hills
and the impossible weightlessness
of branches.
***
I read and follow The Living Theater
in Mexico with Antonin Artaud.
I live an expressed destiny of strong desire
bordering on the improbable.
I travel with Antonin
when he meets mescal Indians
and I keep him company
all those years in a mental hospital.
***
I have long conversations
with Rabindranath Tagore
and I often wake up in Russia
in the late nineteenth century.
The Japanese eye travels
far into my eye,
fairy tales and myths
mix with the real I can see
and Dylan Thomas.
I travel for days
like a monk in his prayers,
I travel far longer
than the surrounding turbulence
we are forced to link with
can contain.
The seasons tick quietly.
Poetry by Bob
Read 564 times
Written on 2015-04-20 at 21:03
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I missed Woodstock
The adult world is increasingly becoming
something completely foreign,
repugnant and totally unacceptable.
Broken points of reference
glitter irresistibly on wet tarmac.
It is 1966.
It's a new time,
in a new world.
New births flow
with new eyes
through air
that looks at I.
Truths are formulated
in dark, smoky clubs,
where the wildest of gangs
raise long cheeky fingers
to the parental sky.
Something all to strange
creeps in a slow manner
deep beneath my bare skin.
Everything is intense
days are bright springboards
toward the tomorrows mystery.
There are oases of life
abounding in the vastness
of the labyrinthal city.
There is immediate experience
and pure existence.
Parks, cemeteries,
strange green courtyards
and the high points of the city,
become great magic places
where I light my chillum.
Sparrows speak my language
and bright gulls
have names of their own.
Each plant and shrub
is a part
of a present paradise.
***
Seasons follow me
and the desire for a new, bigger life,
shapes an expectation,
a trampoline.
It also generates impatience
that will run out of control
and set fire to convention.
Citystreets call with wet asphalt,
condemned houses
and a smell of freedom.
Strangers provide
new dreams
and a new belonging.
***
***
One night all references
suddenly disappear.
A disintegration, a blankness
a vast emptiness
I become.
I have mixed amphetamine
LSD, hash and rommelar.
Different voices come to life
voicing
an impossible rebirth.
***
Darkness disappear.
Penetrating light,
empty and painfully naked,
reveals the observer
without anything to say
in the rear seat.
I am reduced
to a pale reflection
of surrounding movements,
a mechanical puppet,
the empty bounce of an echo.
I follow so many trains.
I am abandoned every time.
That night
the door is kicked in.
Together with Yoshie
I am whisked away in the night.
She tries to flush the dope
down the toilet, but fails.
***
Sometimes I surface
in the Sultan Ahmed police station
where I sit on the concrete floor
of a huge run down cell,
with several balconies of wood rising.
At the top the wealthy sits,
drinking tea and eating well,
looking down the wooden stairs.
***
It does not help
that I do not agree.
It's a specific truth
the police is looking for,
they want a scapegoat
for the murder of four policemen
a few days earlier
when an American
tried to shoot himself free
from a the police station.
He was shot down from the roof
where he made his last stand.
He was Tom Mix
in the Turkish papers.
"It will only get worse",
says the male
Turkish interpreter in English.
"The police chief does not believe in you.
Tell us now. It's best for you."
When I maintain
that the smoke is only for personal use
I am pushed down on my back,
my feet are tied with a rope
to a narrow wooden stake.
two policemen
at the stake's ends
lift my feet.
When the chief of police
starts hitting the soles of my feet
I just think it is
a silly place to hit.
The skin under feet is thick.
Soon the sole area
is meat screaming for oblivion.
I tell them everything they want to hear.
They help me to stagger back
to the spacious cell.
***
***
We move like a family,
a collective
of creative men.
Antonio from Fano,
artist and poet;
India bum and biennale king,
beatnik and freak
gives me days full of
direction and content.
Ronald, long and colored
from Chicago,
Black Panther and rabid poet,
often reads
his poetic manifesto aloud
about the black man's
strength and beauty;
of the white man's
decadent and dying society.
George from Zurich
came recently from an ashram in India
where he had studied the Vedas
and Russian mystics.
And Koji Morrishita,
the man with an eye for
feelings and motions of the moment
and the rolling thoughts
that follow like sweet thunder,
the artist that finally
gave me the hills
and the impossible weightlessness
of branches.
***
I read and follow The Living Theater
in Mexico with Antonin Artaud.
I live an expressed destiny of strong desire
bordering on the improbable.
I travel with Antonin
when he meets mescal Indians
and I keep him company
all those years in a mental hospital.
***
I have long conversations
with Rabindranath Tagore
and I often wake up in Russia
in the late nineteenth century.
The Japanese eye travels
far into my eye,
fairy tales and myths
mix with the real I can see
and Dylan Thomas.
I travel for days
like a monk in his prayers,
I travel far longer
than the surrounding turbulence
we are forced to link with
can contain.
The seasons tick quietly.
Poetry by Bob
Read 564 times
Written on 2015-04-20 at 21:03
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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