Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when 'neath the trees of Eden.
The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden.
The savage soldiers sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who's gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden.
With a time-rusted compass blade
Alladin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Side saddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden.
Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I will try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden.
The motorcycle black madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden.
The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what's real and what is not
It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden.
The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden.
At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what's true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden.
------
Released on his groundbreaking album Bringing It All Back Home, Bob Dylan's "Gates of Eden" is a poetic masterpiece. With its nightmarish, apocalyptic mood, it demands the attention of the listener. The song tells of various people and their search for paradise. The song alludes to the Garden of Eden, the wonderland garden in which Adam and Eve lived. It bursts with spectacular images, such as the lines:
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
The personification of the "lamppost...with folded arms" in the second verse further pushes the poetic agenda of the song. The lyrics also satirize the hopeless members of society; the ones who spend their lives looking for a paradise which does not exist. The combination of the words "wholly" and "totally" bring about a lovely example of consonance. Throughout the song, Dylan paints a bleak picture, using his craft to not only write a fantastic song, but to also make the listeners think in fantastic ways. Fantastic.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
College Admission Letter
Good day esteemed college administrators. I know that you must recieve countless letters and emails everyday, boring you with GPA's and SAT's and talks of PHD's. But I, for one, will bestow upon you a feeling of excitement and adrenaline. A feeling of fear, but also deep respect. Many feelings of lust and affection, but I feel we should ignore those particular feelings in order to keep this professional.
I was born in the deepest of woods, raised by the angriest of wolves, living through the most dazzling tales of adventure. When I was a child, I took a day trip away from the woods, onwards to the bustling metropolis of New Orleans. There, I saved a bus full of Cuban refugees from falling off a cliff, using only a paring knife and dental floss. Afterwards, I sent them back to Cuba, because I don't support illegal immigration. It was when the Mayor gave me the key to the city that I decided to leave my woodland burrow. Adjusting to city life proved to be quite difficult; in my first year I only scored a 99% average in my classes. Trust me, those days are behind me. My teachers must have some kind of cliche-ridden coach advising them, because they're always giving 110 percent...to me. Barack Obama frequently asks me for fashion advice, Joe Sakic bugs me for pointers on his wrist shot, and Charlie Sheen always asks me for the number of my cocaine dealer.
When poring over the long list of college applications, with all of them basically saying the same thing, remember this diamond in the rough. This application-God amongst application-men. A beautiful flower, surrounded by dirt and manure. Even if you won't admit it, but this letter will stick with you. Implanted in your brain like some kind of disgusting insect, you'll feel it tickling in the back of your mind as you eat, work, and sleep. This will continue until you die, or I am accepted into your institution. Whichever comes first.
I was born in the deepest of woods, raised by the angriest of wolves, living through the most dazzling tales of adventure. When I was a child, I took a day trip away from the woods, onwards to the bustling metropolis of New Orleans. There, I saved a bus full of Cuban refugees from falling off a cliff, using only a paring knife and dental floss. Afterwards, I sent them back to Cuba, because I don't support illegal immigration. It was when the Mayor gave me the key to the city that I decided to leave my woodland burrow. Adjusting to city life proved to be quite difficult; in my first year I only scored a 99% average in my classes. Trust me, those days are behind me. My teachers must have some kind of cliche-ridden coach advising them, because they're always giving 110 percent...to me. Barack Obama frequently asks me for fashion advice, Joe Sakic bugs me for pointers on his wrist shot, and Charlie Sheen always asks me for the number of my cocaine dealer.
When poring over the long list of college applications, with all of them basically saying the same thing, remember this diamond in the rough. This application-God amongst application-men. A beautiful flower, surrounded by dirt and manure. Even if you won't admit it, but this letter will stick with you. Implanted in your brain like some kind of disgusting insect, you'll feel it tickling in the back of your mind as you eat, work, and sleep. This will continue until you die, or I am accepted into your institution. Whichever comes first.
Dialogue
Morgan Freeman was sauntering about Master Royal Academy Prison, trying to kill time. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and all the inmates were playing in the courtyard. He saw Tim Robbins sulking against the prison wall, all by himself. Freeman approached him.
"Hey Tim," he started, "Why so blue?"
"The prison guard took my cigarettes."
Morgan Freeman responded, "I can give you some, if you're willing to trade me something."
"Well," Tim continued, "I have a pot full of potato vodka I've made behind the guard's backs."
"Good stuff?"
Tim laughed, then hooted, "Oh yeah! Best this side of the Mississippi."
"Well give me a swig, then!" shouted Freeman, visibly excited by this point.
"I will," Tim cautioned, "But be careful. I'm not too sure how strong it is. In fact, when taking into consideration the equipment I used, there is high chance you will go blind."
"Pass it, brother!"
Tim was dumbfounded. "Did you not hear what I just said?"
"Yeah, you said you have some potato vodka I can have!" exclaimed Morgan, jumping up and down and whooping very loudly.
"You will almost certainly get a stomach infection and lose your vision if you drink this vodka. I am giving you fair warning. Are you listening to me?"
But Morgan was now running around in circles, giving high fives to his fellow inmates. The word "potato vodka" was being murmured throughout the courtyard, and everyone started to look at Tim. They all surrounded him.
"Give me the vodka, little man," barked a particularily intimidating prisoner.
"B-b-but...," Tim retorted, trying to warn him of the dangers of his beverage.
"Hand it over."
And so he did. And that day, that wonderful, sunny afternoon, was the day an entire prison, except for the guards and one inmate, died of copper poisoning.
"Hey Tim," he started, "Why so blue?"
"The prison guard took my cigarettes."
Morgan Freeman responded, "I can give you some, if you're willing to trade me something."
"Well," Tim continued, "I have a pot full of potato vodka I've made behind the guard's backs."
"Good stuff?"
Tim laughed, then hooted, "Oh yeah! Best this side of the Mississippi."
"Well give me a swig, then!" shouted Freeman, visibly excited by this point.
"I will," Tim cautioned, "But be careful. I'm not too sure how strong it is. In fact, when taking into consideration the equipment I used, there is high chance you will go blind."
"Pass it, brother!"
Tim was dumbfounded. "Did you not hear what I just said?"
"Yeah, you said you have some potato vodka I can have!" exclaimed Morgan, jumping up and down and whooping very loudly.
"You will almost certainly get a stomach infection and lose your vision if you drink this vodka. I am giving you fair warning. Are you listening to me?"
But Morgan was now running around in circles, giving high fives to his fellow inmates. The word "potato vodka" was being murmured throughout the courtyard, and everyone started to look at Tim. They all surrounded him.
"Give me the vodka, little man," barked a particularily intimidating prisoner.
"B-b-but...," Tim retorted, trying to warn him of the dangers of his beverage.
"Hand it over."
And so he did. And that day, that wonderful, sunny afternoon, was the day an entire prison, except for the guards and one inmate, died of copper poisoning.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
A Moral Dillema
Ryan Bushby
10303 Old Shanty Rd.
Yorkinshire-toodledoo, England
A99 9AA
10303 Old Shanty Rd.
Yorkinshire-toodledoo, England
A99 9AA
October 10, 2011
Charles Westerford-Smythe
Mayor
Yorkinshire-upon-spamshire, England
A35 1FE
Dear Sir:
Although I am honoured to be asked to help, I am not the person to ask in this matter. But before I discuss those matters, I must ask you a question; are you seriously contemplating high treason against Mother Britain? This man is a war criminal! He killed thousands! This is a situation that must be handled by the international courts. I believe he would go away for many years in jail, as justified. How did we have a German mayor for so long anyways? Doesn't that seem weird to anyone else?
I sincerely hope you make the right decision.
Sincerely,
Ryan Bushby
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)