kid charlemagne
Well-known member
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
if there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
This is the best part...... What the Thunder said is a poignant end to the Wasteland, it is the Wasteland, our world is the Wasteland, when this was written it was, and when i am reading the world is still the Wasteland..... Our roads to nowhere weaving through mountains of rocks with no water.... weaving through a life that is incresingly tech fueled and a life where the rise of artificial and computerized advancement is where any real advancement in human thought, meaning, and connection is dropped off a cliff.... a world, wasteland, where we are constantly plagued by our empire's past failings is not one where we can sit and stop to drink the true body of christ, and the holy water of life.... we cant even taste our sweat, or hydrate from what we excrete..... amongst the rock, the digital is the only thing that keeps our blinkers on...... we dont stand or lie or sit, not by choice anymore, just by program...... where is my solitude in my little box at the top of the stairs? a poem that beckons back to pocahontas and the natives, before america finally drew blood... its like what burroughs said (im glad i saw someone mentioned him in this thread) "America is not a young land, it is old and dirty and evil before the settlers, before the indians. evil is there waiting"
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
if there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
This is the best part...... What the Thunder said is a poignant end to the Wasteland, it is the Wasteland, our world is the Wasteland, when this was written it was, and when i am reading the world is still the Wasteland..... Our roads to nowhere weaving through mountains of rocks with no water.... weaving through a life that is incresingly tech fueled and a life where the rise of artificial and computerized advancement is where any real advancement in human thought, meaning, and connection is dropped off a cliff.... a world, wasteland, where we are constantly plagued by our empire's past failings is not one where we can sit and stop to drink the true body of christ, and the holy water of life.... we cant even taste our sweat, or hydrate from what we excrete..... amongst the rock, the digital is the only thing that keeps our blinkers on...... we dont stand or lie or sit, not by choice anymore, just by program...... where is my solitude in my little box at the top of the stairs? a poem that beckons back to pocahontas and the natives, before america finally drew blood... its like what burroughs said (im glad i saw someone mentioned him in this thread) "America is not a young land, it is old and dirty and evil before the settlers, before the indians. evil is there waiting"
