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Description
I'm with you in Nowhereland, where we indulge ourselves in liquor and flesh and blood and lingering illness. Where we roam the nightblue streets, staggering, babbling, screaming, searching for happyness, love, warmth. Where Rockland is just within a stone's throw away and Carl Solomon is waiting for us.
Where we shed blood in the name of a dead hooker. Where the moaning saxophone and the wheeping guitar and the dull stamping beat of the drumset cuts into our hearts, souls, brains.

I'm with you in Nowhereland, where people are just ghosts, where love is just a word and sex is just an illusion. Where we break down in cancer infested alleyways after nights filled with liqour and blood and horniness and we long catatonically for the morning. Where we stand there, empty and broken-down, always holding the bottles in our hands, in scuffed suits and worn out shoes, searching, wishing, hoping for an excessive rock'n'roll-god, who will take us by the hand and show us the back door to paradise. Where we lose ourselves in the shiny, tearfilled eyes of old tender men that buy us shots and tell us about long gone times, sometime before a big war.

Back then, when men were still men and women were still women and you could buy a sandwich for only 50 cents. Back then when the nights were still purple and filled with the sounds of moaning ballads of aging blues singers that search holey pockets for the last coins for a bottle of heavy, sweet wine.
Back then when pain was still pain and problems were still solved with fists in dim bars, when a fix was still pure and affordable in New York and in Tangiers and in Mexico and in Marseille.

I'm with you in Nowhereland, in Rockland with Carl Solomon and Ginsberg, in Tangiers where Burroughs wrote his masterpiece in the profundities of a heroin intoxication, at the post office with Bukowski, hungover and tired, beaten, broken-down and dirty on the chivvy for a racetrack, on the road with Thompson in Las Vegas on benzedrine and ether, lost in the gambling-swamp of a circus-casino, where chaos is just waiting to catch us on the wrong foot.

I'm with you in Nowhereland, where we're waiting for the Nowhereman and only find petrified inebriations of times long gone.

Where we cling to the soft full beards of grumpy seamen, on pot and alcohol and ominous pills and colourful powders, which a cliche-pimp springs out for us from his many rings.
Where we race over too crowded dancefloors, looking for a toilet and then we just puke against the bar and get kicked out with a thumping brain and a twisted mind.

I'm with you in Nowhereland. Streets! Houses! Cars! Burning Trains, smoking chimneys! Industrial madness, squatting in corners, mumbling angel-gibberish, fallen to dementia, shaken by too much amphetamines and caffeine.

With you in Nowhereland, in the palaces, int the neon-hell, in the penitentiaries, the drug-temples, the whorehouses of a destroyed city. Here with you in Rockland, where we're all mad. Where we're begging for ten more electric shocks. Where we're begging for lobotomy, hypnotism therapy and the deathmatch against our inner demons.

Where we pay soft hookers to accompany us with a glass of beer and a hashpipe, just to suffer a fit and leave them frightened and crying in the ruthless night.

Where we trade our sanity for a ticket into madness and destroy foreign hotel rooms overwhelmed by the beauty of a dying Mother Mary full of grace.

Here is no beginning and no end! Somewhere there is an exit!

Filth! Decay! Madness! Stones! Broken glass! Death! End! Vice! Sin! Sex! Violence! Entertainment! Only today for an ounce of sanity! Step right up! Step right up!

The road to hell is paved with good rejection letters, entrance fee's a dollar, only today, bargain of the week. Closefistedness is wicked, I'm not stupid, I'm looking forward to it, drink fanta, stay bamboocha, have it your way, I'm loving it! Murder and manslaughter for the whole family!

Blood and excrement, until night falls, two more hours to go, the twitter of the birds is earpiercing, there's still light up there, the night not over yet. Where are we going? Where do I live?

Rest my head on sweaty matresses in shabby rooms, unshaven and encrusted with dirt, the glistening light of a new day and the roar of birds craving for sex.

When will I finally fall asleep?!

Description
I'm with you in Nowhereland, where we indulge ourselves in liquor and flesh and blood and lingering illness. Where we roam the nightblue streets, staggering, babbling, screaming, searching for happyness, love, warmth. Where Rockland is just within a stone's throw away and Carl Solomon is waiting for us.
Where we shed blood in the name of a dead hooker. Where the moaning saxophone and the wheeping guitar and the dull stamping beat of the drumset cuts into our hearts, souls, brains.

I'm with you in Nowhereland, where people are just ghosts, where love is just a word and sex is just an illusion. Where we break down in cancer infested alleyways after nights filled with liqour and blood and horniness and we long catatonically for the morning. Where we stand there, empty and broken-down, always holding the bottles in our hands, in scuffed suits and worn out shoes, searching, wishing, hoping for an excessive rock'n'roll-god, who will take us by the hand and show us the back door to paradise. Where we lose ourselves in the shiny, tearfilled eyes of old tender men that buy us shots and tell us about long gone times, sometime before a big war.

Back then, when men were still men and women were still women and you could buy a sandwich for only 50 cents. Back then when the nights were still purple and filled with the sounds of moaning ballads of aging blues singers that search holey pockets for the last coins for a bottle of heavy, sweet wine.
Back then when pain was still pain and problems were still solved with fists in dim bars, when a fix was still pure and affordable in New York and in Tangiers and in Mexico and in Marseille.

I'm with you in Nowhereland, in Rockland with Carl Solomon and Ginsberg, in Tangiers where Burroughs wrote his masterpiece in the profundities of a heroin intoxication, at the post office with Bukowski, hungover and tired, beaten, broken-down and dirty on the chivvy for a racetrack, on the road with Thompson in Las Vegas on benzedrine and ether, lost in the gambling-swamp of a circus-casino, where chaos is just waiting to catch us on the wrong foot.

I'm with you in Nowhereland, where we're waiting for the Nowhereman and only find petrified inebriations of times long gone.

Where we cling to the soft full beards of grumpy seamen, on pot and alcohol and ominous pills and colourful powders, which a cliche-pimp springs out for us from his many rings.
Where we race over too crowded dancefloors, looking for a toilet and then we just puke against the bar and get kicked out with a thumping brain and a twisted mind.

I'm with you in Nowhereland. Streets! Houses! Cars! Burning Trains, smoking chimneys! Industrial madness, squatting in corners, mumbling angel-gibberish, fallen to dementia, shaken by too much amphetamines and caffeine.

With you in Nowhereland, in the palaces, int the neon-hell, in the penitentiaries, the drug-temples, the whorehouses of a destroyed city. Here with you in Rockland, where we're all mad. Where we're begging for ten more electric shocks. Where we're begging for lobotomy, hypnotism therapy and the deathmatch against our inner demons.

Where we pay soft hookers to accompany us with a glass of beer and a hashpipe, just to suffer a fit and leave them frightened and crying in the ruthless night.

Where we trade our sanity for a ticket into madness and destroy foreign hotel rooms overwhelmed by the beauty of a dying Mother Mary full of grace.

Here is no beginning and no end! Somewhere there is an exit!

Filth! Decay! Madness! Stones! Broken glass! Death! End! Vice! Sin! Sex! Violence! Entertainment! Only today for an ounce of sanity! Step right up! Step right up!

The road to hell is paved with good rejection letters, entrance fee's a dollar, only today, bargain of the week. Closefistedness is wicked, I'm not stupid, I'm looking forward to it, drink fanta, stay bamboocha, have it your way, I'm loving it! Murder and manslaughter for the whole family!

Blood and excrement, until night falls, two more hours to go, the twitter of the birds is earpiercing, there's still light up there, the night not over yet. Where are we going? Where do I live?

Rest my head on sweaty matresses in shabby rooms, unshaven and encrusted with dirt, the glistening light of a new day and the roar of birds craving for sex.

When will I finally fall asleep?!