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"

St Petersburgh night

The Mars One project by NASA which aims to colonize Mars beginning in 2022 has reportedly revealed that more than 1, 00,000 people are eager to join the project in a bid to visit the red planet but do not want to come back.

A few years ago,
I went to a halloween party dressed as science.
on the walk there we met others,
who were dressed as other things.
one girl
who I didn't know
was dressed as a nun
she was fairly drunk and kept falling behind the group
I was tipsy and eager to get there to dance and drink more
so I was ahead of the crowd.

"Come on you drunk nun!" I yelled back
I had on a helmet wrapped in foil
with an antennae sticking out the top
and shiny scientific instruments hanging off my jumpsuit,
so I was in a good mood.

"shut up science!" she slurred and laughed.
Someone made a joke about science being ahead of religion
I slowed my pace and
took a piss in the alley while the nun caught up.

By one a.m. I realised I had been a bit too eager,
my foil had unravelled and my antennae had fallen off.
I sat slouched in the couch, squinting to see,
all I could make out was the nun,
spinning, dancing, twirling around the dance floor.
All the cowboys, witches, zombies, unicorns
and vampires danced in circles around her hypnotic energy,
with their arms raised up toward the disco ball.

In my head I made a joke,
at my expense,
I don't remember what it was.
I groaned to myself as I passed out with my helmet on.

Old timer drunk at the carnival

https://soundcloud.com/#szymon-bonaventura/old-timer-drunk-at-the

Duck duck goose

“Look, look, look!” 

he says

poking her with one hand

and pointing to a young man,

by the lakeside,

with his other.

“he's having an epiphany!”

“OUCH! Stop poking me!...

How can you tell?”

“I had one just like it, I can tell by his face”

“when?”

“when I was young”

“you are young”

“I was much younger before”

“were you by a lakeside?”

“no, I was in bed”

“was I there?”

“no”

“did you know me then?”

“no”

“what was the epiphany about?”

“that's like asking what deja vu is about”

“I know what my deja vu is about”

“what?”

“I remember being near a lake,

you were a hound

and I was duck,

you snapped at me

but I knew you were just playing”

“yes, you had nice feathers then...

Rghouf rghouf!” He barks at her squinting face,

they laugh.

 

The young man by the lakeside hears their banter

and turns his attention from the branches overhead

to the pretty couple rolling in the grass barking and quacking.

He was beginning to get used to these synchronicities.

Earlier that morning he awoke to the sound of children playing

duck duck goose, in the courtyard.

He got out of bed playfully annoyed,

and barked like a viscous dog, out the window,

down into the courtyard.

A couple of the little girls screamed,

he laughed to himself over eggs and coffee.

real green

I get home and it feels like

nothing but boxed air

the clock reminds me

once a second

what time is supposed to be

I get home and it feels like

everything except out there

books press against each other

reminding me of the

relationship of informations

I get home and it feels as though

it's insignificant where i live

my mattress bluntly reminds me

of the stubbornness of gravity

I get home and it feels like

I've never been here before

the coriander on my window sill

reminds me of what the

real green is supposed to mean

I get home and it feels like

I've been here all my life

I take off my boots and the rich smell of my feet

reminds me of where I've been

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anten I and I

I come home exhausted,
from what? I'm not really sure
probably all that hazy yellow afternoon sun
that my skin absorbed from a perfect distance
I kick my mess aside and
throw all the things that aren't agreeing with the
rest of the mess into the next room
and while doing so, find the remote I never knew I had
I watch a science documentary
which attempts to explain physics
to those who to watch television
this episode is called “universe or multiverse?”
and to help understand the theory of a multiverse
the charming, enthusiastic, American host begins with an analogy
“picture a block of cheese!”
and as he continues to talk about what we perceive
as the universe, the computer generated graphic
of the cheese transforms into Swiss cheese.
“now picture SWISS CHEESE, and imagine our
supposed universe as just one of the holes in this cheese”
after he's done talking about cheese, some physicists
are interviewed; they explain the multiverse
using their scientific language and profound mathematics
to validate the hosts point.
But it still sounds like cheese to me.
Interesting and real, but far from my favourite food.
If I could taste once in my life,
it'd tell them to keep their cheese to themselves.
I change the channel
and there is Snoop dogg under a fruit tree in jamaica.
He has his skinny arms up over his head
jumping up and down trying to pick a grapefruit just out of his reach.
when he finally grabs hold of it he tears it open and bites into it
and with juice running down his goatee he looks into the camera
all soft eyed
“this here is paradise baybee!”
it cuts to him that evening, in the studio
recording a song called fruit juice.
he sings about god, peace, love, rastafari and fruit juice
he calls it his reincarnation
and asks to be referred to as Snoop Lion
god I feel like some grapefruit juice
It's after midnight and the shops are closed
so I just wander through the thick darkness
walking the streets taking the turns as they come
I step and I step and I hum, sing and hum
I can sense the signals of people inside their bedrooms
all the flavours of their truths and dreams
seeping out of the windows
I channel into them as I go by
and I don't need a special remote
I just sing their signals as they float

earlier today,
while painting a white wall whiter,
my father told me that silk worms live only in mulberry trees,
i told him that i couldn't believe it took me 25 years to hear this for the first time

later,
i figured i could afford to buy my favourite vodka,
the one with a bison on the label
and a blade of grass inside

just now,
my father rang
and told me it's going to rain tomorrow
so we're not going to work

now,
i ask him if he thinks time grows like a mulberry tree or like grass
he asks me if i'm drunk

i say yes

he laughs
ha ha ha.

Intense Tense

In my shower, in my box of a bathroom, in the morning, in a slightly off balanced state of mind; I shower. The ache behind my eyes has settled into a gentle throbbing tingle, almost pleasant. I watch the drops bouncing off my chest and shoulders and fly past the sunbeam coming through the window, each individual one is splitting its own personal colour spectrum within.
I play with the idea of following one drop's journey. from falling out the shower head, bound together with many others for extra momentum, to dramatically bouncing off my shoulder and breaking away from the others and taking its own flight path, but just before my little hero reaches the sunbeam I close my eyes.

I close my eyes and begin following another path, my own path, that is being paved by the rhythms of those gentle throbs originating from behind my eyes.

Before I knew it I had to choose between other paths. paths being paved by other beats, rhythms, throbs and wails. This wasn't a four way intersection or two paths diverging in a yellow wood. these paths were not numbered, but nevertheless completely based on precise mathematics. Completely based on precise mathematics and at the same time as messy as a high school art teachers ashtray. There was one and infinite, more-or-less and before I knew that, I had already chosen one to go down. I wasn't forced into any decision, not by anyone but myself, even though I was there before I got the chance to make it.
I was making decisions in history while experiencing their consequence. And when tense became too tense I opened my eyes.

I open my eyes in time to catch my little drop hit the sunbeam and split its own personal fantastic colour spectrum before leaving me.
Where did it go? Is it dead? Did it know it was going to split that rainbow? Did it join back together with the other drops? did it know I was watching it? Did it split that rainbow for me? Did it wonder or care? It was just falling wasn't it? Making decisions in history.

Climbing Limbs.

I've often wondered why tree climbing isn't a more appreciated activity/hobby (sport?). So when the clouds parted and the sun shined on down, I went to the woods and I climbed on up. I still wonder.

The Sirens

They make themselves visible when I least suspect them.
I assume when their presence isn't even present

in my deepest brain cavities,
Long after I have forgotten that such beings

can exist within five senses.
That's when they sneak up on me,

but not from behind a tree

or my back

or any of the many stealthy hiding spots around.
They'll appear before me,

smack bang in front...silent...almost hovering.
Before I can clearly make out their outlines they'll slap my frozen cheeks

with their gentle translucent hands

and lightly frolic away before I can even feel full sting.

And I'm left standing,

my legs somehow still balancing my weight,
My skull somehow still holding onto my jaw as the burn melts into my face

and grabs hold the back of my pulsing eyeballs.
The sirens wail reminds me to breathe again,

I draw in two lung fulls of crisp forest air,

tasting the aged wood and autumn leaf particles pass over my tongue and cut down my dry throat,
I hold onto it for longer than I should,

until my chest hurts and my head starts to spin to the rhythm of the wails,
but sure enough, it too frolics away and the sound and the memory of the sirens fade

and I’m left back in the clearing,

more lost than ever.

She wails.

She wails amongst the others in an attempt to affirm her presence,
Sure, they affirm her voice, her laugh,
her wail and of course her well groomed body,
but the same cannot be said for her presence.

She takes a swig from the bottle and wails,
She takes a puff and bellows the smoke
while wailing her wail.
She passes the bottle and wails,
to whom?…who knows?
Why? Who knows?
She wails, she wails.

I know what’s behind those wails,
at least I like to think I know,
At least I wish what I thought I knew were true.
Behind those wails she can gently smile at the breeze in her hair,
Unaware that anyone’s there.
Behind those wails she can softly stroke and feel what’s really there,
Well aware this feeling is rare.
Behind those wails she can dance to wind, to sound, to silence,
Well aware there isn’t a care.
I remember what was behind those wails and I miss it,
I miss it,
I miss her,
I long for it.

I too have began to wail, I too strain to remain.
I too have lost the winds rhythm.
I too have lost soft touch,
I too have put up these wailing walls of uncertainty,
Like playing the game of being human,
Partaking in the pastime of existence,
Well aware of the rules of the game,
But completely unsure why we play it.

Throbbing wails,
Wails of fear,
Wails of hope,
Wails of pain,
Wails of indecision,
Wails of falsity,
Wails of imprecision.

I remember being behind these wailing walls,
And she was there with me,
Behind these walls was also within,
Now we are free,
But it’s not so cosy.

Neither here, nor there, nor somewhere in between.

Any man's significance seems mighty insignificant
to anything outside the sea shores and mountaintops.

He can try feel at one, but he'll never be more than alone.
He can filter the seas of minerals and life,
but his eyes will never see a speck of purity.

He can leap off bridges, fall through clouds and glide through the stratosphere,
but he'll always fall short of real bending fear.

He can hunt down oxen and deer, study their bones, pick their brains,
drape themselves in their fur,
strap on their horns and wear their hooves as boots,
but he'll never attain their wildness.

He can study mathematics, calculate decimal points, measure bacteria and
square root that by half an atom till kingdom come,
but he won't know true preciseness till his own time has come.

His time and numbers play no real role, His words plays no real role,
fur and bones play no real role, trees and their leaves,
wild flowers and their honey bees play no real role,
bricks, glass, mirrors and plastic spoons barely make an utterance,
while the aging man's body is somewhere in between.

His equations aim to explain, but his science only detracts,
his poems aim at being content with misery,
but his language merely distracts.

Neither here nor there nor somewhere in between.

Every poet, every pianist, every trapper, every fisherman, every cowboy, every tramp, every monk, every shaman, every ju jitsu master, every mathematician, every astronaut, every alcoholic and their fathers and their brothers, their enemies and their friends.

Neither here nor there nor somewhere in between.