Tuesday, September 23, 2014

What's all the Rushin' Fer?

I've been looking for this for awhile. It's on an old framed picture at my father's cabin. I'll try to rustle up a photo.

Rushin' to the office, rushin' out to eat, 
Rushin, back an, rushin' home, Rushin' down the street 
Rushin' up an, rushin, down, rushin' in an' out, 
Say, what,s all the rushin' fer? VVhat's it all about? 

Rushin' after money, rushin' after fame, 
Climbin' pushin', shovin', It's a dizzy game. 
Steppin' on each other,s heels, let me by-lookout! 
Say, what's all the rushinl fer? VVhat's it all about? 

What's the use of rushin'? Let us loaf a while, 
VVatch 'em push, an' run any grab, We'll just sit an' smile. 
As they scramble down the road gaily we will shout, 
"Say, what's all the rushin' ferr, VVhat's it all about?"

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

A bit of fiction to friction your brain against... #lastword

     Something smoke-like in his undulating thoughts clutched at him, making him think now of grasping her about the waist until something gave, but the only thing forgiving in the room were his calloused hands.
     The witch just sat simply, looking very witch-like in her beauty bereft of any indicators of age, timeless as a broken clock, her very countenance tick, tick, ticking towards trouble but influencing and inviting the inevitable storm of sensual self-reflection commonly found in these pawns of prophecy.
     His gaze, driven by a guilty conscience, darted round the room, lingering perhaps too long on various bits of its Spartan decor, deconstructing motives nonsensically as her votive candles flickered and the thin incense sticks drew a cloudy heaven amongst the cedar rafters above.
     How his thoughts could craft a sexy specter from the sad sorceress before him was the traffic of this stage, his rage and rancor settling to a mediocre malice as she spat blood onto bone and drew symbols in the dust with a single, long nail.
     Outside, the dark had dropped her skirts upon the town and bats divebombed their dinner while the streetlamps blinked their dusty orange lashes of light down streets empty save for the myriad unseen denizens of night.
     He pulled his fedora down a fraction of an inch, catching an almost invisible bead of sweat beneath the band before it trickled to tickle the tip of his nose. In his left hand, a lucky strike, sans filter, threatened the rug below with it's bayonet of ash.
     Everything was made of molasses, and he had a hard time judging how long he had been watching her perform this rite, or ritual, or whatever it and she purported to be, or be becoming.