Autumn, Creative Directions, and Peace Work

Autumn creeps forward with bits of auburn color, splashes of yellowing leaves, and clear blue skies that we’ve missed this past summer. The air is crisp and refreshing. I’m in a time of renewal, with new projects, artwork, and learning to centering myself in the creative process. The creative flow has felt like a tidal wave in the past six months and now, like a veteran surfer, I’m finding the perfect wave, my relationship to the ride, and learning to balance on the powerful tide. The creative balance is between my work as an artist and my commitment as a peace activist.

I’m productive and relaxed, letting go of many outside commitments that were diverting my attention away from writing and creative work. I’m writing each morning about 2-4 hours daily without strict deadlines, able to write what I want and pursue my creative projects. I’m able to follow the wild muse and enjoying the ride. Though this creative free form schedule has been difficult in terms of getting work out, published, and/or produced, I’m enjoying the privacy of creativity. This creative process includes the writing, designing and drawing new installation peace projects, writing and playing music, photography, and the time to savor the freedom of creativity.

Richard Lovelace in his poem “To Althea from Prison” captures this freedom of spirit so well:

Stone walls do not a prison make

nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

that for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love

and in my soul I am free,

Angles alone, that soar above,

enjoy such liberty.

September through October getting ready to perform my newer work - iR Reveren'jAz and jAZ mU eXperience. 17 October 2009 I will be at 5C Café on Avenue C in NYC with some excellent jazz cats. Then I am on to Cambridge and Boston for shows. Stay tuned for details. I am slowly planning for additional shows at colleges in the region. I’m approaching shows differently, each show as a unique creation with the improvisation of jazz, word, and multimedia.

One of the new projects I’ve been very keen on (but and dragging my feet) is the performance multimedia project “Four Prophets” Jesus, Mohammed, Moses and Buddha meet in a Public restroom.

This November I’ll (hopefully) visit a new community development project in Haiti. Then over to Dominican Republic to follow up on on-going community projects we have there. GRACE CARES supports small-scale community development projects around the world. We have one project in India that teaches health care and English and those project holders are creating a larger community health project.

In January through February, I’ll be in Palestine and Israel observing, writing, performance, and hopefully teaching and engaged in homeopathy for children with PTSD.

In the late spring, if things go well, back in Europe performing for a two week tour.

I am a peace activist and artist, and have continually tried to fuse this work and find the balance. Some of this work is on my website at www.vermontpoet.com/gallery and in the music and book section, as well as the section on Landmines. I am designing a Peace/ Meditation Garden using old military weapons and building fountains and art projects. It combines alternative energy, community development, and design. I have a potential sponsor for this in Florida.

I also have the poem One Hundred Flowers that we are aiming to translate into 100 languages.

One Hundred Flowers

Let there be one hundred flowers

of peace that bloom in the garden.

let there be one hundred hours of peace

for every moment of war

let there be one hundred acts of kindness

for each instance of hate.

let there be one hundred years of love

for each minute of violence.

let there be one hundred voices of peace

for each one of war.

let there be one hundred flowers

of peace that bloom in the garden.

namaya 2001

Another integral part of my peace work is looking at ways that my contentious and feisty self appears in the world. In working towards a world of peace I need to center myself, less caught up in my petty arguments, the small egocentric vanities of anger, and focus my attention on the real work in life. I am clearing out the emotional junk that has lead to a lot of unproductive anger. Truly, I am a work in progress. I will always be a feisty person, but the necessity is to do it with a bit more graciousness and humor, learning to find the cruising speed and the easy idling, and avoid the temptation for constant over-drive.

My renewed attention is to the on-going military debacle in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The US needs to turn over its share of the war to the EU nations. If the EU, Russia, China, and other countries see that Afghanistan is such an imperative, then it needs to put its soldiers and commitment there. Why is Obama continuing the same failed policies of the Cheney/Bush misadministration?

I campaigned for Obama and think he has the potential to make a difference, but his administration is still fundamentally committed to the failed policies and militarism of the previous administrations. The U.S. is in a pivotal moment, while we need to engage and create peace partners internationally, we must resolve the catastrophic problems in the US: 2 million homeless; 25 % elderly poverty; the lack of affordable health care; the vanishing manufacturing base; our deteriorating education system; and the lack of regulation of the Wall Street Capitalist gangsters.

Eisenhower said it best, “Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the cloud of threatening war, it is humanity hanging from a cross of iron.”

In the time of personal renewal I am looking at my art and writing as a voice to speak for peace.

Never

Never

Never raise a hand

to a child.

Never strike

or beat.

Never an excuse

to hit or humiliate.

Never a reason

to shame.

Never a need

to hurt a child.

In an instant

of anger – pause.

In a moment

of rage – leave.

In a sudden

anger… stop.

Stop.

See yourself

as that child.

Dr.Gates, please, did you forget

Dr. Gates Harvard professor
international renowned scholar,

breaking into his own house,
a bit more than suspicious.

Wouldn’t you say?

Though intelligent and well
spoken, in the blue eyed vision
of a cop, where black is black
and white is always white,

a Black man

is still a Nigger.

Did you forget, Professor Gates?

Well Trod Path

I’ve spent my life taking
the path least familiar and
less traveled on five
continents, but a path
that is best cherished is
the well trod one through
the woods to my neighbors’
house.

About a hundreds yards or
more, whether in the summer
or any season, the path winds
through the woods to their
backdoor. I generally don’t
knock, but give a call of
“hello” and most times it is
a call back of, “Come on in.”

A glass of water or wine offered,
and if it’s around dinner, an extra
plate appears on the table.

If a tool is needed it’s there
in their shed or ours, readily
available.

This well trod path through the
woods so familiar and known
that even in the pitch black of
night we can find our way to each
other’s door.

* for Michael & Phyllis Gigante

Email, texting, being important

Email, texting,
etc.:
The Importance
of being Important

Email, texting,
on the cell
phone, constant
yammering,

urgent addiction
to emails, checking
it every ten minutes,

as if something
important was
there, life threatening,

an urgent call
from a girl-friend
while you’re on
a date.

your date takes
out his cell phone
and suddenly
you’re at the
dinner table

can we admit
most of it is
very silly
nonsense?

And for me
this very
famous
person, in
my own
mind,

no, I’m
not as
important
as I think
I am.

Are you
as important
as you
think you
are?

Portrait of you

My lover died

yesterday. I had

time with him

alone, before the

nurses, doctors,

and other well

meaning people

came.

I caressed his

hair and combed

it one last time.

A few strands

fell off in the

comb and I

kept those.

I wore a faint

touch of lipstick

and kissed his

lips one last

time. I placed

a kiss on this

canvas. As

many as the

memory of

our loving

could hold.

I ran my finger

under his armpits,

I smelled it and

it was too clean

but it had his

scent on it and

I placed it on

this canvas.

I kissed and

held his cock

in my mouth

one last time.

I know he has

AIDS and I

do not, but for

the memory

of all of our

loving, the

laughter, joy

and for the

years we

would never

have.

I then kissed

this canvas

again, the saliva,

perhaps filled

with AIDS …

or

was the disease

at last

redeemed with love?

Was the disease

blessed with our

final loving?

From those arms

once so strong

who held me

I drew tubes of

blood, as much

as his still veins

would offer.

On this canvas

I have written

this poem with

his blood and

as I write it,

the tears run

down my cheeks

without fear

or shame.

His blood dried

quickly and

I couldn’t finish

and drew blood

from my veins.

This canvas

torn from our

soul, a fragment

of our journey

interrupted, but

a memory of

love

complete

RAFA: King of Pain

The King of Pain

Sweet boyish face smiles

in victory after victory.

In the middle of the match

he skips back to play

like a little boy in a school yard,

but this is where the boyishness

ends and the king of pain

takes over. He is like some

cartoon figure that turns himself

into the monstrous hulk…

the scowl returns, the eyes

narrow like an animal on

the hunt, and the bulging

biceps and muscles grow

with each point.

But what kind of

animal is this

…moves like a gazelle,

ferocity of a wolverine,

the grace of a hummingbird,

the persistence of a bull

and the cunning of a crow?

This animal can be no

other than Rafa raised

on the red clay of Majorca

and now stalking the

tennis courts of the world

with ferocity and grace,

inflicting pain and dashing

hopes of those who fall

before him.

Though at the end when

the battle is over

the boyish smile returns,

and with the grace

of a champion he acknowledges

his foes…

but there is no mercy

when Rafa takes the court

as he is the King of Pain.

I will Miss Heaven: An Atheist's Soliloquy

we laid in the garden,

my lover and I, she

amongst the clouds

and blues of the sky,

I in our garden of

red and white poppies.

One day there will be

no poems and all

my intimacies

with god will be tender

recollections of love,

poignant memories of

desire and ashes.

Though an atheist by

necessity, I have loved

you with an ardor and

reverence that not

even the Pope could

imagine or aspire to.

A blade of grass is

as inspired as a steeple.

God and I have been

tempestuous lovers,

rousing arguments,

but mostly they were

arguments with

myself.

I kicked open the

door to your boudoir,

with muddy boots,

ripped aside the

curtains, but you

were filing your

fingernails gazing

at the astral blue

clarity of the sky.

Two eunuchs stood

guard at the door,

Desire and Gnosis.

Perhaps a

a ménage a quatre?

The shimmy shake

with Gnosis, Desire,

et toi – mi amor?

I longed to lie in

the nesting chambered

nautilus of lovers,

but knowing and loving

only begins in the

surrender to love.

In this I failed, again

and again, and

chained myself to the

wheel of expectation.

There is no freedom

in love or desire, but

in my quest for

intimacy with you,

dios de mi amor,

I’ve found the

redemption of our

private secret loving.

…in the garden,

my lover and I.

Assses: Global Warming Sex Poems of Slugs

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned.

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan.

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.
+++++

Slugs as Great Lovers
Never thought of slugs
as great lovers until
today, I saw a porno
movie that captured
their amorous romance.

Slithering in a mucous
rapture towards estrous
leaving a scented trail
of the equivalent of a
bed of fresh roses,
Belgian chocolates,
and the promise of
hot sex spoken in
a fragrant bouquet
of pheromones.

Man, the film was
kinky!
I was getting a little
excited as the two
slugs congealed
in their thick
mucous rapture,
coiling round
one another in
a spiral of love
for hours in the
slow juicy
exchange of
fluids,
--in their
hermaphroditic
rapture their
luminescent
blue penises
glowed in the
dark

and at
the climax
one dropped from
the tree in
a sated orgiastic
thrilling fall

It laid there
on the ground
still

exhausted
thoroughly
spent and
musing,
“Man,
she/he
was hot!”

++++++++++++

Excerpt from: Easter 09
My obligation as an artist, maybe
that is a stretch, my obligation
as a sentient being is to be awed by
the Universe.

The whole universe.

The sunrise on Estrellas, the planet
so secret from scientists
that only a poet can visit, where
stars don’t shine but laugh
from the memory of redemption.
Have you been there and seen the
intimacies? Have you seen
flowers bloom with the heads of Saints
and saviors from the planet Earth?
There is a garden where Jesus and Buddha
Mohammed grow.

Jew – Christians- theists and even atheist
grow in the garden then plucked, stems,
stalks, but the seeds remained.
On the piano, by the window that overlooked
the five moons of Estrella, light streamed
through the window
everywhere in the universe colors are
universal
except here by the Edge of Memory.

The precipice where the Universe will
tumble and fall off,
is the Edge of Memory

May
I translate some of these colors?
Love is the first color:
Something akin to an e flat minor,
a blue lilac disintegrating
into razor thin slices of reality:
six lives, ten incarnations of
an e flat minor suspended over a pool
of fire
sacrificed for her own beauty.

Placed in the vase found the memory
of desire.

Anguish:
A chromatic minor key that unlocked the
`room of memory.
Fidelity:
Fidelity to the integrity of desire. A round G bass note
on a cello inside the subterranean vault of the Metro
by the catacombs – La Defense – when I played the
adagio in G – bones of the catacomb seemed to moan
with pleasure at the memory of sound.

+++++++++

Alchemy of Love

I’m a writer who
needs a quiet
place to work.

My wife is in
the kitchen
joyfully
banging
pots
and pans

in her
flurry of
cooking.

A knock
on the door.

Pancakes
strawberries
and whipped
cream served

as my writing
is interrupted
by the alchemy
of love.

Unraveling the Knot
Spring unravels
the thick knot
of memory
that binds
us to winter.

The alchemy
of love to
surrender.

Da’fence Department

A fence in my world
is someone who takes
stolen goods, gives
you a fraction of its
worth, and resells it.

The Department of
Da’fence stealing the
future of America,
& repackaging it as,
“Democracy for export!”
“Freedom from terror!”
“Free trade for the USA!”
“Protect our Oil!”
All wrapped in red, white
and blue.

Obligation

My paintings may never
hang in a museum or seen
by more than friends.

My poems may never
be heard or read by more
than a roomful of people.

My songs may never be
heard by more than
a few.

My creative work that
I devote my life to -- may
not find an audience in
this life…

but as an artist my
obligation is to wake
up each day and create.

Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption

Koagulation of Love in a Minor Key of Redemption:
Will the K Fok of Corn Flakes be Announced:
A turd of Ku once to the 3rd and diminished in a minor 7 relative
to the instigation of love itself:
Or merely
dig
dug
to the transcendent Ku.

1. A Pagan’s Te Deum

The scene of the crime always littered with clues.

Some may even considered the brain scatting high wire flagellation of love in guise of a poem to be the paragon of permutations – a mind twisting – instigation of jAz po ology.

The jAz poem by the jAz Mu ologist Neorotica Namaya was displayed at the Gallery, the oohs and ahhhs of his verbal and textual prestidigitation was unprecedented, no creases, no folds or wrinkles, it was a smooth canvas sail of images tightly stretched by the nor easter of his ever fulminating fulminations. Gaseous some might say! Flatulent! Though Namaya, ever a transcendentalist, engaged in the trance and the dance of Ku, kwa, ki kooo bop and the other 56 and a half colors of the phonic lexicon of the keys of Love.

Clanging, changling, chingling, and the gate keepers in the guise of a tranny with a predeliction for leather opened the room.

I thought she was an angel, said the poet. Then she ravished me, lubed me with every ounce of lasciviousness, but not an iota of concern for my virile beauty, instead she squeezed ever errant Mu, Ku, Kwa, Ki, and vagrant diode of phonic assonance from my soul. I was flopping fish milked for my eggs – Or in this case for my pearls of Mu, Ku, Kwa, and Ki.

She had a little stove in the corner, changed into a cliché of a French maid, pumps, aprons and all – whipped up a soufflé of vowels and purring permutations of luscious lilac fragranced reveries.

I was bound by straps. Naked, on a bed of broken dreams, if I turned too far to the right or left, one shard dug into my side, a thorn, as he was pierced with the Roman’s spear, eyes to heaven, realizing the terror – no god, no past, no redemption,
and though glass can be recycled – our humanness demands ash to bone, earth, mingled in the refuse, broken, but in that moment… Belzubah dressed as the whore tossed the soufflé with the caress of a mother to a new born child.

The moment we are born we are torn from the womb of the dreaming ocean.

We are killing the dreaming ocean – Gaia mother – dreaming – love—and lying naked.

She knelt down and fed me a spoonful of water. Vegetable brain soup, indeed.

The concordance of love in the concupiscent intersection of time. E M I T alluring T I ME turned backwards is a beam to E M I IT to EMOTE - E Tome. Strange that an E
Tome is a tone poem.

Drunk with ku in an insidious state of nu, entre nu, a perfectly intimate state. On the stage alone with my words, that seem to have separated into their own reverie

The terror of love is a far more compelling argument


2. More Arguments with God

god and I were making passionate hip stirring, soul vibrating eXtatic love as the pink blue light rose across the Eastern sky. we were shacked up and nestled between two palm trees on the north shore of Kauai. The hammock was rocking and swaying in the morning wind.
Though she looked from all appearance as an island girl, beneath the foaming waves of concupiscence and love divine, in our wordless Ontological rocking, seeking the union of
Shiva and Shakti,
“Shimmy shake and co co bop, my love.

But she was wordless in the conventional sense; nevertheless, all my arguments with god, the audacity to question, was subsumed as the morning rose across the ocean.
We laid back in the hammock nestled into each others arms and watched the storms and clouds and burgeoning sun argue with each other

I need to kick in the gates of heaven. Instead found consonance in our love making by the ocean

Consonance.


3. Art and the invincibility of Love:

Art that soothes and comforts.
Oral Sex in a hammock, a Maraguerita in one hand, the languid dreams of July are rolling by in a cloud, a yellowing sumac leaf seems to stay aloft forever.
The slow climaxing of two virgins in heat rock the hammock. We roll down the grassy slope to the pond. In the high grass we made love with savage hopefulness, 69 as the transcendent value, if that is not the quintessential prime number, then we are not a culture engaged in revelation.
Fuk sake! The poet maybe finally on to something. Is that clock broken again? Twice a day – right again – more than Bush in 8 years savage bungling.
A culture not engaged in revelation, eXtasy and the journey to the dog god Sirrus disguised as God.
A culture that is not engaged in eXtacy is one that is engaged in its own annihilation.
In a solitary orgasm, clitoris erect, moist with expectation, salvation
Two lovers, long legs splayed akimbo to the sun, rolling and tussling while the sun and shadow played amongst the maple trees.

We keep waiting for God, hoping that she will step off of the cross town bus.


4. Brothers and sisters:

Crazy! Fuk no!

YOU ARE THE OUTLIERS. YOU ARE DREAMERS. YOU ARE THE EXTATIC POETS. YOU ARE HYPERACTICVE> UNABLE TO FIT INTO THE NORMATIVE WORLD>

They will give me disability for hearing voices.
But they won’t give me a monthly stipend as poet.
They will pay me to keep the voices medicated.

I will gladly take your money, pretend that my divine attunement, my attention to the language of angels and demons is a disability. It is not, I simply need to pay attention when I cross the road. Look right and left. And that is ALL perfectly wonderful. To wind up as a grease spot on the grill of a dodge truck is as ordinary as Gaudi was divine in his vision. He should have been more attentive.

God spoke. He listened. The carriage was conversing with the road.

5. eXtacy: The Journey Again

I am an eXtatic person living in a non eX Tatic world. A world, rightly or wrongly, more concerned about static cling and the statistical necessity of war.

X marks the spot, right there in the space of your deepest longing.

The Stasi were the East German secret police. Heavily starched briefs gives the needed support to the state power structure, but the STATE of POETICS killed by its own narcissism, addiction to prosody, verse, nicities--- well starched BVDs and poems in America have a growing commonality: Well creased and ironed. Augusto Pinochet poured into his uniform every day

I don’t flog the conformist, though they should be, I’m too busy -- enchanted and eXtatic. My pain is my separation from the dreaming ocean of reverie

Academic verse, is eXtacy in reverse, screaming fearful, obese, flatulent and waddling towards oblivion.

Quack said the clack with obsequious genuflection. Car insurance and personal assurance, has a greater ascendant value than the language of eXtacy and revelation

Imagine living without fear?

Imagine attuned to the whispering of the divine?
A stalk of green dreaming the earth, piercing the earth, thirsty for the sun and the imperative for air?

Watching a line of cars caught in a traffic jam for several miles on Monday morning, each person tuned in to a radio, cd, cellphone, planning the day, SUV with two hundred horse power ready to roar in the opposite direction of eXtatic revelation. So many beautiful men and women, children too, collared into the uniformity of social control and making that Do Re Mi.
Rake in the dough. Buy more shit. Deeper in debt. Rake in more dough. Watch ` the yeasty condition rise in the dough pan. More fat, more dough.

Fat people do not make revolutions. Michael Moore aside. Fat people can’t waddle eXtatically and storm the gates of heaven

I will always storm the gates of heavens

Keep the pernicious vices to a mild roar. The vices that bring you true eXstacy
liberal doses

Okay, so what if you’re not attuned to a cosmic frequency?

Take one minute to watch a flower growing in the garden?
Rip off your shirt and stand under a downpour.
Allow a piece of dark Belgian chocolate to melt on your tongue?
Walk naked through the garden of your imagination.
Howl with glee at the new dawning moon.
Or turn off every noise, beeping buzzing intrusion, and listen to the quietude.

Astonish your soul!

Jiggle. Wiggle. Piggle and Po
Tuuuu. Pooooo. Zozzzzz. Zeeezzz and Xhen.
In the Kingdom of Xanadu where King of Ku
ku blai khan was the hippest koolest cat
who was kogitating on K ching!

The euphonious rifting of
KC and the Sunshine band.

More love and hope, more redemption than window pane, blotter acid,
or Sunshine itself.
Oswald the Magic Hatter willing to kick open the doors of Paradise – well, at least
to allow a ray of light through the bathroom window.


6. War Against eXtacy

A tribe called Love

In the West the creeping pernicious insanity is the war against the exTatic celebration. Not just the giddy, shaking your booty, and dancing naked in your mad love for the divine; but the
e XortatioN
eXALTATION

to live your life with a profound intentionality.

Unblocked by fear of the X tatic what would you create in your life?
What would be the extraordinary instigation of madness that would suffuse and inspire the soul

p.s.
my soul is opening a window

Asses: Global Warming: Save The Rain Forest: Toilet Paper

No other poet taking on such issues
as the maligned toilet paper tissues.

A shitty subject for poetic affairs
and urgent personal hygienic care.

The world is filled with many asses:
Fat, small, skinny… a lot of asses.

that demand soft white fluffy paper
and too, mountains of baby diapers.

Rivers polluted and forests cleared
to keep our asses squeaky cleaned

Bedouins used water and sand.
Ouch, is what I say to that plan

Toshiba has a high tech scrubber,
tushy clean rubba- a- dub dubber.

Or soap, water and rag is a way
to keep it tidy each & every day

Save the planet! Raise your voice!
Bend on over & make a choice!

Save the rain forest! Save your ass!
If truly organic, wipe it with grass.

Recycled toilet paper if you will
To give your bung- hole a thrill

Or follow the four fold tush rule
to be truly environmentally cool

Wipe, fold, wipe, fold & again.
Wipe fold, wipe, fold & again.

At last put your ass on the line
An indelicate issue not so refined

Save our water, planet, and trees.
Save your ass too if you please.

Obama and the Fear of the Small Penis?

Lyndon Johnson didn’t want to

be seen as man with a small penis,

Vietnam was his lasting genius.

GW Bush padded his crotch and

strutted on top of an aircraft carrier

as if he were a top bulldog terrier.

Obama seemed to be a man of reason.

Two wars still going balls-to- the- wall.

Will he pull out before his fatal fall?

Tommy's Gun Ablazing

Tommy’s Video Game

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a stalking for the

enemy deep inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a hunting for the

enemy on TV inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a killing for the

demon screaming inside us all.

Chorus

Tommy’s guns ablazing’

Tommy’s guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

Verse

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a stalking for the

enemy deep inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a hunting for the

enemy buried inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a killing for the

demon screaming inside us all.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went a raging for the

tattered fears inside us all.

VERSE

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the school

where the children cowered

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the church

where the people prayed.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into the post office

where the clerks worked.

Tommy with his submachine

gun went into their rooms

where they all quickly died.

Chorus

Tommy guns ablazing’

Tommy guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.

Verse

Tommy never saw blue

lights flashing in the rain

never saw the gun at his head

I saw it all on TV a hundred

times every day, everyone was

happy when the bad were dead

I killed a thousand each day

on a video before noon and

today, only a dozen now dead.

I killed for you to let you know

I understood, the more who are

dead the better chance to win.

Chorus

Tommy’s guns ablazing’

Tommy’s guns afiring’

Tommy’s fun beginning

Tommy’s fun beginning

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead

Fall fall fall down dead.