Ibiza

It's an empty house perched on the hill

that was once blue 

 Often in love .

Always dreaming ...

On the doorstep when the sun

sets its load ,

A hairy guy flirts with the four strings

of a country landscape .

Around the cheerful  fire 

a joint is shared  among mouths .

stars never married to  the dark...

Everyone follows the lyric of their own delirium.

At 20 years why bother working 

or going to war with  a woman ?

It's quite an effort to take the boat  out

to fish offshore on a forgotten island 

called Ibiza ...

 In the morning ,opening our eyes ,

wrapped around a blonde

who was too cold in London 

and sought spirituality in a raga 

by Ravi Shankar ...

 For  altamont angels ,entrance to paradise 

is forbidden ! 

 Here,all wearing a tatoo like legacy of death 

which means to love one another ...

And night will pass like a dream .

 Maybe ,children elsewhere their wide eyes 

open in a bright flash ?

 We think about it for a moment 

then tired falling asleep  

afting biting into  the blonde ...

  Only clammy heat of a body  

as evening prayer .

  Winter is not welcome in Ibiza ! 

  Man, I stopped believing in the legends

of the old backpacker ...

  Phil has passed away of a psychedelic overdose

of critical thinking .

 Jim became a priest then killed his wife 

after a real bummer in Montreal .

Pat returns to London and had three or four kids

with a Paki who introduced her to god  

at the local mosque .

As for me, I'm still hanging out 

in the subburbs of a blog in the middle of somewhere,

filled with the joy of writing  craps 

that nobody care about ...

 The empty house on the hill 

was sold to a jet setter .

 Far from the Carrib' island 

the insiders of the cursed list are nostalgic 

of the good old days when fish was easy  

off the coast of  Ibiza bay ...

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