The Martha Dumptruck Massacre
This is jeweled and jaded, noisy, and everyone is caressing
the moment. Lovely lights. I haven't said much, and the
composer is working upstairs. He’s taking in a twist of
Chopin and Debussy to make a White Mozart.
So, he comes over just to tell me he loves me very much.
Then he falls onto the air hockey table. It takes a lot of
concentration for the others out there, uncivilized as they
are; it takes such a large effort to stand up straight.
Strangeness. Reminds me of the martian who told me so
many things. Especially being able to render myself
unconscious underwater for hours. Days, even. Not only
that, but finding how things can 'not be' when
necessary. He was in a strange land. We're all in a
strange land.
I will take on the world.
It's all written as a testament, a new standard, as if it
were shiny, brand new bible to pick up and hold to our
hearts. Being a saint; too many sultry saints these days.
And now it's dying down. Almost falling flat, notes
tumbling off the bars and crashing, crunching, crippling
and now, nebular. It's a though the shadows of the silence
are standing right behind me. Watching my spine bend back
and forth. Standing up is a conscious thing these days.
It needs to be self-taught is itself. The noise.
One little box of Beatles. Ringo got more attention than
we take the situation for. Did they ever go to the Cold War
while wearing scarves? Decorative scarves, while drowning
in whiskey. Nothing harsh; just some of that sweet Tennessee
river water boiled to a pure brim, drank, and embraced. A
rocking chair would become quite useful right about now,
just to soothe the soul. The soldiers are coming, and
someone is eating chips. Damn it. He needs water. We'll all
need water sometime soon, like nothing else.
Water will be heroin; nay, water should be heroin.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: What is more useful when broken?
the moment. Lovely lights. I haven't said much, and the
composer is working upstairs. He’s taking in a twist of
Chopin and Debussy to make a White Mozart.
So, he comes over just to tell me he loves me very much.
Then he falls onto the air hockey table. It takes a lot of
concentration for the others out there, uncivilized as they
are; it takes such a large effort to stand up straight.
Strangeness. Reminds me of the martian who told me so
many things. Especially being able to render myself
unconscious underwater for hours. Days, even. Not only
that, but finding how things can 'not be' when
necessary. He was in a strange land. We're all in a
strange land.
I will take on the world.
It's all written as a testament, a new standard, as if it
were shiny, brand new bible to pick up and hold to our
hearts. Being a saint; too many sultry saints these days.
And now it's dying down. Almost falling flat, notes
tumbling off the bars and crashing, crunching, crippling
and now, nebular. It's a though the shadows of the silence
are standing right behind me. Watching my spine bend back
and forth. Standing up is a conscious thing these days.
It needs to be self-taught is itself. The noise.
One little box of Beatles. Ringo got more attention than
we take the situation for. Did they ever go to the Cold War
while wearing scarves? Decorative scarves, while drowning
in whiskey. Nothing harsh; just some of that sweet Tennessee
river water boiled to a pure brim, drank, and embraced. A
rocking chair would become quite useful right about now,
just to soothe the soul. The soldiers are coming, and
someone is eating chips. Damn it. He needs water. We'll all
need water sometime soon, like nothing else.
Water will be heroin; nay, water should be heroin.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: What is more useful when broken?