Yeah, I guess it WAS doodles.
There's some journal-prompt going about where you bang your head on the keyboard and have the letters that come up be the first letters of each word in the sentence you...uh, end up writing. Couldn't be worse than that one. Let's give it a shot.
"gbttujnm"
Get back - the Tuber Uncle Jumps nightly, madame!
"dcfghnj"
Dead Coriander-flies gush hella necro-jello.
That was fun!
I predict that by the end of this summer, I'll either explode or implode. in any manner you care to interpret it.
I wanna conduct something.
I wanna weave violin in and out of a soft woodwind patchwork, then set the whole fuckin' quilt on fire. Violin's flammable enough, and burns well with the assistance of an angry oboe and an insistent, primitive timpani working close with the basses and cellos, maybe even an electric guitar. First in A minor - Dark red - then a drunken stumbling into E Minor - Black, with an aching, silver french horn moon rising over the frowning, doubting 4 chord, and flashes of white trumpet brilliance fighting for resolution, but finding themselves dissonant as the A minor Violin-harmonic(the screechy, ultra high noises) flames refuse to be snuffed. That is, until a Blue(f sharp pentatonic) classical guitar rain reduces it to steam(piccolos and violins), the rain gathering in piano puddles with vibraphone ripples.
I don't claim this to be poetry. I'm just trying to psyche myself outta my composition block.
Gah. What's the deal with this love bullshit, by the way?
Oh, yeah. Paul's new name is Parplegicker. No questions asked.
"gbttujnm"
Get back - the Tuber Uncle Jumps nightly, madame!
"dcfghnj"
Dead Coriander-flies gush hella necro-jello.
That was fun!
I predict that by the end of this summer, I'll either explode or implode. in any manner you care to interpret it.
I wanna conduct something.
I wanna weave violin in and out of a soft woodwind patchwork, then set the whole fuckin' quilt on fire. Violin's flammable enough, and burns well with the assistance of an angry oboe and an insistent, primitive timpani working close with the basses and cellos, maybe even an electric guitar. First in A minor - Dark red - then a drunken stumbling into E Minor - Black, with an aching, silver french horn moon rising over the frowning, doubting 4 chord, and flashes of white trumpet brilliance fighting for resolution, but finding themselves dissonant as the A minor Violin-harmonic(the screechy, ultra high noises) flames refuse to be snuffed. That is, until a Blue(f sharp pentatonic) classical guitar rain reduces it to steam(piccolos and violins), the rain gathering in piano puddles with vibraphone ripples.
I don't claim this to be poetry. I'm just trying to psyche myself outta my composition block.
Gah. What's the deal with this love bullshit, by the way?
Oh, yeah. Paul's new name is Parplegicker. No questions asked.