... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

425: First seven songs on Trout Mask Replica

My smile is stuck- I cannot go back to your frownland a drawer of knives falls and a guitar in the corner of the kitchen struggles embarrassed as it attempts impressions of horns and mousetraps, the devil burns and little girls fix taps and plumbing pulls on bass tumbles – struggles – poetry doubles over, old grey old gray old grain – the dust blows forwards and the dust blows back pop, pop music hangs itself from the inside, pop corn pork head, mr pig dons his hat and doffs his cap, monsier tet yodels at the moon, black birds eat insects mice scramble and scatter at the call of the trap, can of coffee, sue, spam, dissonant guitar argument in time signature I can't figure, it stops and starts and one song is not the other, ears tight to the horrors of the camp, the blues, woody reed honk, chalk thunk, daft trout hat fight, don't think too much just dance, why don't you dance asked drunk, crying height hat hate pate, band jumble sails missed the boat, dialogue don't know.

Don't walk, riff off stop, lift the lid, high yella, hi ella guru lets go fly a kite she blew, she is blue, it is blues, tin can batter drumbo jungle circus top hot dog shop, stop fast furious and oh so tight it hurts. Hi hat shuffle tap tap tap the pipes the pipes the Beefheart hunkers down and squarks his squeal instrument and heady heart of lungs and heroics fart. Crow sits on roof opens its mouth and sounds it's never heard before surprise it like it's never felt before; window opens a jot and door slams a car. Sorry for so much sorrow. I found my drum kit where I left it, don't hurt my bass man damn, big boss, guitar fights. Rehearse re: hearse, or extemporise in bull fight. Story told is not known to those who go too far. Stop.

Vinyl scratch what do you think sounds good it's a bush recording neon meat dream of a octafish, no it's hair pie – bake 1. stop. Riff better and harder in the moon, on the moon footprints pistols dawn dawdle – the moon can do – who are you? Sing sing queen of England footballer baller ball ba bee man ant do. See the elephant in the room, over there hiding behind the cactus wall-to-wall chaser. It can't hurt us. It did it for me and it did it for you moonlight at the back snare crash bang sweat head on hand, foreskin on sofa, better off dead twisted shifted swinging from tree-to-tree hush your pants ol' timer. How does it, good enough for all and Sunday, Friday weekend fade to frisson, sully yourself in a paper packet fishmonger head, reckon?

March with a limp, fake the limp, stumbling post, hammer drop, sugar rock. Scrunch nose to a height of fifteen inches, safety equipment protects prison from waving seaside wheel ball. I'm old, dawn breaks as sailor stains strain steam in the rafters, hat jump on head and 'brella keep the wet out. Cracked heaven greenhouse reflects the sun to teeth and beehive from the flower to the nectar honey fire. Scar skin with horn thorn. Quite quiet at the back the jazz man is pumping freedom machine.

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