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.