New song! (remaining nameless for the time being.)

She looked as if she'd seen a ghost
staring through her applesauce.
No moving muscles in her face;
well, who could judge?
Vacant eyes drooping down like a willow branch,
weeping silent remembrance
for what's in front of her
but somehow out of reach.

Then I said "Volcanoes blow up all the time..."
and she responded with and ellipsis and a sigh;
she said "I think my dogs are barking
so I probably should be going. Away."

The alleyway: Home to bums and kitty cats,
raining her balcony-spilled vomitants.
Under the fire-escape
a calico feasts.
The swinging door: Proscenium to the greater world
beyond the safety of the curtain rods.
Spewing her breakfast over the thrust
just to get it out of her.

Then I said "Volcanoes blow up all the time..."
and she responded with and ellipsis and a sigh;
she said "I think my dogs are barking
so I probably should be going. Away."

The Grey.

Her skin was cold and grey.
Her face was old, but had this glow
mostly reserved for candelabras
in the winter.

She reached into her head
through a hole where her eardrum should be,
pulled out something transparent
and held it out to me.

She sang:
"The only good idea I ever had
is sitting now in my hands;
the years have made it no use to me.
and in this cold twilight of mine
I'm offering it now for free."

I did as she bade and opened my hand.
It was warm and lucid, but somehow
not malleable for all its
pinkish gold.

Hesitating at first ('cause it was kinda weird),
I raised it up to my face
and shuddered as I inhaled deep
from the strangest musty smell and taste.

She sang:
"The only good idea I ever had
is sitting now in your head;
may the years find it a use for you.
Now I fear this twilight of mine
may well be through.
Goodbye..."

s'dark in here.

She said "Pull your head out of your ass."
Maybe I should;
it's more hygienic...
But it's so loud out there
and I can't hardly get any
thinkin' done
at
all.

songggggggg

A box. It exists.
On the floor. I wonder what's inside...
It's made of cardboard;
I wonder what it holds.
It's labeled in Sharpie;
fat streaks scribbled in black.
A hand while writing it that
must have been cold, perhaps lonely.

It's labeled "E-mails:
(all printed and stapled in two's)
Failed Conversations From Last June"
Subtitled "(no one cares about the Moon)"

A book. On the floor.
Near the box. I wonder what's inside.
Bound in mass market paperback...
Is it knowledge is it gold?
The pages are folded and kinda brown.
The bookmark's a yellow receipt,
that sees a new book every week;
it's from something like cigarettes a year ago.

It's titled "Land of the Living:
How To Return From Within You"
Subtitled "one hundred and fifty things you can do
(including walkin' off in somebody's shoes!)
(and maybe for once not carin' about the moon.)"

There

A post to appease...
but I'm WAY fucking tired.
coffee, bagel, ...work.

snow, eh? s'no way!

Agitated atoms

calm,

congregate

and crystallize.

Once again,

the world is a

colloid.

grosumbalz

You suck at driving.
It's just rain, not Death Jelly!
Speed up or move, pls.

It's not Thursday yet; nor is it Friday.

I stood in the rain

thinking "There's a poem here."

And now I'm just wet.

s'matin' season

"We are peacocks"
he said
"with a finite
amount of time
to fan our
brightest
feathers
wider
than the peacock
across the cage."

In summary:
"You should use
your guitar
to
get
laid."

Easter

I
would have
nailed
this turn of
phrase,
but
for an
infestation
of little
Popeyes.

Hello Field

Hello Field.

You are quite pretty

if you don't mind 

me saying.

When I look at you

I can see back to the

beginning--the days

where your supporting earth

was much less

viscous.

You were quite

tumultuous back then...

but somehow

in the following years

you got

stuck.

I rather like the

final shape...

Maybe you're not stuck,

you merely settled;

and the tumult was just

a means to an end.

Either way,

thanks.

back off.

A shifty,
mistrustful gaze
staring defiantly out
at a world of foe.

One last taro root chip,
and
it's
Mine.

You tense, ill.

To count the tines 

of your fancy

as one would do a fork,

would be

To count tines

I'm not sure exist

outside the realm

of hopeful myth.

Do you love music? 'Cause I do.

Imagine Music
as a tangible thing.
Feel the textures--
the twists and turns...
Smell the colours
as they swirl and burn...

Taste the shapes.
Caress every curve,
every space, every
wrinkle--trace
it with your mind's
finger.

Now imagine having sex with it.

Wake

The land of Wake
is an unpleasant place,
with its Demons of Light
that puncture your brain.

But with my fragrant brown sword
and a nice pair of shades,
I shall vanquish those demons
and conquer the day.

...I guess...

fdbk

Man,
I could really
go for some feedback.
'Specially because
I don't really have the
'knack' for this
'words' thing.

Gee,
constructive
criticism from a
clever wordsmith would
certainly steer me
in the right
direction.

Too bad I don't know any...
*pointed pleading glance*

Sappin'

Fickle beasts, trees.
But we like their snot,
so we tend to appease their
jumpy sensibilities.

We approach from behind--
carefully and with naught
a sound but the wind--
and collect their pee.

They don't seem bothered
by the concept persay...
But I still ask please;
cause, well, who knows?

Fickle beasts, trees.

Lourthre

The aroma of your golden-orange glory
permeates my orifices.
It leaks into the holes for which it was
so perfectly cast,
quenching the cockles of an
ailing vitality.

The Leathery lac-ed toungue of your
determined pulsing presence
dibbles en dans mon esprit.
Wait, was I just talking about
food, music, or something else...?
...or perhaps all three?

Go away, pls, World.

In my recent past:
Balloon dicks.
Current sounds in this room:
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My head hurts.

SF# something: Dragon-Man

yuh.

My Composer Bio

    Once upon a time, there was the Universe.  Somewhere within this Universe was a planet. This Planet's name was--yes, you guessed it--Harold.  Upon Harold's brow, amongst the forests, planes, rivers, oceans, mountains, lakes, valleys, rice patties, and cranberry bogs sat a man.  This man was deep in thought.  He wasn't thinking about Life's fortunes, or misfortunes; he wasn't thinking about people, or love; he wasn't even thinking about the fact that his bladder was quite full, and would soon need to relieve itself.  He was thinking--in fact--about sounds.
    By the grace of the Gods of Music, this man had a special gift.  He could send his entire consciousness out through his ears, over the forests, planes, rivers, oceans, mountains, lakes, valleys, rice patties, and cranberry bogs until it wrapped around the whole Harold!  He saw every sound happening on Harold simultaneously, as a sort of woven web of wisdom.  This--the ever-wiggling, shimmering and evolving web of interconnected sounds--he called the Timbrescape.  Where most people could only hear very small bits of the Timbrescape at any given time, he could hear it all.
    The man of course, treated this like the sacred gift it was.  He believed (quite accurately) that the Gods of Music had imparted to him a sacred task: Tap into the Timbrescape, search out the negative energies, and reweave them before Harold is cleaved in twain by war and destruction.
    Embrace this mission he did as side by side, he and his Muse disappeared into the sunset, chin up, heart open, ready to save the Harold.  He was a man.  He was a Composer.  He was:  Jeff Bazz.

Spells and Abilities

Jeff Bazz (level 23 Guitar Mage) has unlocked:  DADGAD

New Spells:  Sleep, Hypnosis

New Abilities:  Recruit Stoner

+3 Stoner Affinity
+2 Wisdom
-2 Intelligence

"But If I Was a Solenoid" (A birthday poem)

But if I was a solenoid,

I would be more solenoid-esque.

Wait, what is a solenoid,

isn't it some sort of mixture?

I think so, yes.
I believe it is the sort of mixture
in which the particles are vertically suspended.

Ah, thanks for clearing that up!

Well, one does ones best.

Wait, isn't that a colloid?

Oh dear, did I muck things up?

Well, I'm pretty sure that in a colloid,

the particles are suspended in some sort of liquid,
in some sort of cup.

Oh, then what's a solenoid?

I think it has something to do with electricity.

Huh.

Happy Birthday Etienne! (http://30fathoms.blogspot.com/)

SF#9: Breakfast

Tim Hortons, here I come!

...

And we'll totally be like: "Mislabeled, Bitch!"

SF#8: Fucking Insomnia

if only I could proxy that "Kool-aide Man" creature card in real life...

SF#7: Guest strip from Michael Quinn (pills.for.robots)!

Love a good breakdown.

got this from Mikey, at http://pillsforrobots.blogspot.com/
know him. love him.

SF#6: What being a Composer is REALLY like

*click to enlarge*

They pair you with your noble Steed after 2nd year in music school.
It's a living.

SF#5: Solfège

That's right, I'm 12 again. So what?

SF#4: Hair-Suit

*click to enlarge*






















On average, how much soup--would you say--you catch per day?

SF#3: Bandanna of Righteousness

"Gang symbol" my ass!  Ain't nothin' gonna bring me down.

Dragon Lovin'

SF #2: Nota Bene

*whew* that's done.  Hooray! First comic!  Dig in my nerdy brethren!

*they'll be better drawn in the future, I promise!

**well, more like I vaguely suggest the possibility. :)

TIREDASFUCK

My waking self is a child of insomnia,
whose world floats by in bitter haze.
My waking self is a child of insomnia,
whose only friend is Sumatran Blend.

SF #1: NBD

Jeff Bazz: Makin' winter sexy since: Now

S'my birthday, which means it's time to kick off my super-crazy-radass-wonder-blog!  T'will be the home--I feel--of many uninteresting and irrelevant musings, and of course my poorly drawn webcomic! (for which I've a plethora of strips just waiting to ooze their way into my computer)

So for now, I leave you with a thought:  You know the difference between Me and all y'all?

I make Winter look awesome.

                            

PCE,

    --JBazz