Bob Schwartz

Sometimes it is done with Patti Smith. She (along with Zen masters, along with other musicians like Kurt Cobain) is in the lineage of the Beat Poets, who faced with a crazy world, talked crazy. Or so it seems. Songbird inmates of the asylum. Don’t try to get out; you were never in.

This from Space Monkey on Patti Smith’s Easter:

Space monkey, sign of the time, time
Space monkey, so outta line, line
Space monkey, sort of divine
And he’s mine, mine, oh he’s mine

A stranger comes up to him
Hands him an old, rusty Polaroid
It starts crumbling in his hands
He says, “Oh man, I don’t get the picture
This is no picture, this is just, this just a, this just a”

“This is my jack-knife, this is my jack-knife
This is my jack-knife, this is my jack”

Songwriters: Tom Verlaine, Ivan Kral, Patti Smith