Mostly black keys

I play in the key of E

I only just learnt recently

what that kind of means

it sounds sad

I'm not sure

whether that's a musicology rule

or a rule in me

I loop my forty second sad E melody

the amplifier eases it into the floor boards

sorrowfully

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

I lay on my back on the floorboards

woven rug under me catching

it eases into me too

I close my eyes

satisfied with my

depression creation

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

I am my own god, though not in my words

I am my own devil, though not in my words

for now

those I know, things i've seen

exist only in my melody

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

the colour of triangle

that wouldn't be possible physically

makes perfect sense within my melody

my infected finger

my pulsing headache

I did them to myself

accidentally on purpose

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

I re-watch my fleshy film strip

falls, fights, robberies,

hyper-super-extra-terrestrials

tactile-bulky-grey-date-in-time

blank-by-gin-car

fluorescent-by-mushroom-on-foot

fluff and dust, colourless not grey

not blank, just lots of it

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

her eyes, his eyes

her briefs, his undies

within pop teenage shame

to adult hooded mess

shanking with pens

wanking with words

images mere porn

free range eggs

within range guilt felt

spotlight felt just isn't felt

essential oils

I don't remember how they smelt

is memory essential

lavender for sleep

I don't remember what I dreamt on the third

thyme for concentration

I can't remember that epiphany at three

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

purple fucking bindii weed in my purple fucking toe

awkward eye contact / pass me off as rude

wishes it to not be such a statement to be nude

lovely fucking hippie please remember the fifties too

t-shirts

stink with me

so I can stink alone too

doo

doo

dee

doo

doo

du, du

berroca in the sign of cancer

i'll chew the whole tube

harmonica in the key of D

you don't make sense to E

kid on trumpet downstairs

you doo, doo, dee, doo, doo, du, du

loop pedal battery death

and E fades

and kid on trumpet stays

blerp

be

derp

rode on through

my depression creation

Rough sketches of some music genres: drunk dances devised by a drunk, questions- problems- solutions

Russian classical

    problem- problem- problem- problem- PROBLEM- SOLUTION! O SOLUTION- problem- problem- ah solution

Jazz

    question- question- question- question- question- question- 

ooo what a question-question- question- question

Reggae

    solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution

Blues

    O no solution- solution- O no no solution- solution- O no no no solution- solution- O no no no no no solution- solution

Dub Step

    problem- problem- problem- problem- problem- problem- 

is that a solution coming? -problem- problem- problem

Funk

    problem? - solution - problem? - solution - problem? - solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution- solution

Rock 'n' Roll

    problem- fuck solutions- problem- fuck solutions- problem- 

I don't give a fuck if there are any solutions- problem- fuck solutions

Pop

   no problems- no questions- no solutions

Electronica

    is this a question or solution- I guess that's a question in itself- question

Hip Hop

    solutions all round motherfucker

-The only thing sadder than crying
is being aware of not being able to-

he tells himself,

stuck in a glare pointed out into the wet street,

as raindrops roll down the window pane before his face.

He wishes the sky to be his eyes

and the window pane his cheeks

the wet road his feet

he wishes he was slightly more animal

for want of pure fear

rather than hatred of whom he fears

he'd rather nip at scarce blades of grass

In the deathly heat

than sleep on heaps of hay in a dark

comfortable cave

he'd rather wear his hooves to the bone

than to decide the best brand of shoe glue

or which word he can use for

concrete

without being sued or screwed into

he'd rather read the information of the skies

with naïve perceptions

of gods, Capricorns and light beings

than with what he is now forced to consider as

scientific, gaseous and the yet to be defined

He is forced to walk fifty centimetres

above the mud of the mangroves,

along the board walk, pretending.

Just as he is forced to walk an inch above the one he loves,

pretending

pretending to be a good man

when good men don't exist

pretending to have no lips

because good men don't try to kiss

burnt out buildings seem more real

when he's looking for a place to live

sleeping shirtless on doorsteps seems more real

than finding a job to wake up to,

when the morning suits step on by sweating gel and perfume

-real- is a human word and so it must be that which he can touch

he believes

but he knows there exists a real beyond human touch

a real that has not yet been copy written

and crying is not necessary there

and awareness is worth the same

as the price of making sense

which comes to a total of nothing

your change being everything

and the ninety ninth sense

he's not concerned with appealing to

or marching with

the masses

even if that mass is a minority

even if that mass is thought to have beautiful fur

they cry together

in anger together

as they warn each other of impeding doom

he prefers the doom of his own solitude

and the hole of admitting it

he doesn't expect anyone to throw him a shovel

but wishes some one would all the same

-the only thing worse than digging yourself into a hole

is denying the hole is a grave.-

"The Roughest Sketch of The most Perfect Thing: experiments in romantics and drunken epiphanies"