professional guitar tuner, olympic medallion, sleeping dog to my right. late night, salt and pepper chips numb lock and load, Criminal guitars should be locked up. Lime disease comes from lemons. Harmonic squeal. Finger smear. Black dog. COunt that out perfectly live. Drink into a stupor. Almost too hazy to function much in the way of any help. Too tired to do. "But you didn't have to cut me off." buy you a bag of chips later. random suggestion. 'one wet sock' improvised the melody. learn the harmonic parts. note by note. record lead vocals then back ups using our voices and his voice combined. tuck them in and under the carpet. the magic carpet. the grandfather clock.
* * * * *
Song like the Foo Fighters. Man with two back packs. Front and back. Eating and drinking well. Changing strings on a black couch. Dog attack. Thousands of dollars of guitars resting on top of a leather jacket. Made for the singer. but not quite his size. Make a screw driver. Fix the broken pieces of an amp at gun point. Needle point. Lighting in the room. Tracking guitar all day long. Dirty chicken. Something made me sleepy. Probably alcohol. Take this to the limit. Opportunity to play at a wine and balloon festival. Hot air balloons and nice suits. Your own worst enemy is your apprehension. Weed dealers in between the sheets. We drank ourselves under the sheets. Dark walk through the streets. To keep the dog in check and the body alright. Run down toward victory. Listen loud through headphones. Enjoy the smell of flowers passing by quick enough to keep my heart rate up. Blood pumping in my ears. (old girlfriend in new relationship. most are these days. but I do not feel alone). Breathing in this cadence. The broasted chicken (broiled/roasted) akin to fried. Distant opinions floating around intimate opium dens. Controlling the outcome of the situation. Hair trigger decisions. We will play amon the bands on stage from nineties compilation albums. Many years past their time. But these new up and comers with obvious talent and an incredible back story. Video footage from the studio. Studio updates. Video editing software. I used to do them on my old computer. The warm colored video footage. With all tricks. The pretty women around these streets. Porn stars. More here than anywhere. I've still yet to talk to a true california girl. Living for music. Listen to the songs, representing a hopeful transition into a more creative part of my life. Dissent from above. The flying trapeze studio artists. Engineering with a dog attacking you while sitting in your lap. Camera for leads but no big deal about rhythms. Just a maze of chord progressions. each turn more complicated than the next. Growing vines from fingertips. Planting seeds for flower pots on building tops. Calling old girlfriends or crushes beautiful but in sarcastic ways. No one really understands our lineage. Any sort of history is replaced. Revision to the conceded mold. Contradict yourself into full fledged anarchy. Selflessness. There is no person behind that ghostly mask.
You are a figment of my imagination. But you move so well. I love how you carry yourself in black dresses. Big age-defying sunglasses. You will hide wrinkles beneath them when you are older. Now, tears. Empathic tears because you realized how fragile life is after accidentally flattening a poor creature on the highway. No damage to your car. That turn will always haunt you. An innocent daredevil of an animal tempted fate. Your car the vehicle of its fate. A thud and the creatures soul entered the atmosphere in confusion of blood and ephemeral fulfillment. (Short life anyway). Lifting ethereal from the battlements. The tangled of pipes, leaking, and hot metallic underbelly. (mac battery signal red). You are extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for the world.
Coffee, Bailey's, a blunt, and a national park somewhere. "That sounds like a dream." 'I make it a reality.' On tour with the guitar technician and a pay-to-play regime. Time for regime change. Money in our pockets after days of sweat and blood through music.
Sipping on a screwdriver, flat head or phillip's, and being a harsh critic of chosen tones. Ten days and I've already placed myself into an album. The catalina wine mixer with hot air balloons. Getting faded on fades between parts. Bends and dive bombs. A witness to the genius the whole time. Remembering fills after the first run through of a take. (Talking to someone while they are recording is like yelling during their back swing).
Close your eyes and pretend you are on waterfront property. The man with two back packs used to live somewhere nice with supermodels feeding him grapes. Now he waits for a bus that is not coming.
* * * *
Pink explorer, entering and exiting caves, with a distinct sound. A mating call in some instances. With the types that understand these types. Otherwise forever alone. Utilize the same technique I would have used to push up heavy weights with my thighs at the gym, for chest press, horizontal, free weights. Pre-work-out muscle formula. For those desirable stretch marks that hollywood actors hide professionally. Like tattoos get removed, stitches are unwound. "Did you hear something?" Push the remnants of a orange-colored drink to me dry, chapped lips, with the same thigh I would a weight. In the mirror wall of the room where dudes with bigger biceps making loud sounds while looking at girls at the pool. Whole waves of them. Living out here years ago remaining incognito. Lived out here before but made no friends. I should have seen that to be an obvious and recognizable probably. (My input lost to the sound of the waves crashing against the beach. The same sound a disappointed child makes when turned down from one of his brilliant ideas. With all options in all directions seeming to feel just as important and crucial to further development. Beyond Erikson's stages.) Outside of those deeper categories. Deeper seated. In the ground so much. At one with the rats in the sewers below the gutters. The run off of human waste. The pay-off of all pipe dreams. The resin at the edge of the glass-blown bowl that can be balled up into the hash-scented wax. Through some scientific process they guard with securities. Cameras in the corner and men dressed in camouflage lounging in surrounding foliage. Catch the scent of the criminal activity in outlying neighborhood around the studio. All of the petty crimes shrink and the more hardened criminals scatter, a result of trickle down crime waves from Los Angeles. (Although we are a northwestern suburb.)
"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
* * * *
Don't let the bastards wear you down.
Ties in with Pink Floyd and Hunter S. Thompson among other eclectic sources. Your own bookshelf resembles something with those that are now considered classic. Why does it have to be new to be good? (One of the top best selling records still.) That old movie. So depressingly vivid. It is a visual movie, I guess. All of the gross sensation of sounds and sights. The people, paralyzed in their spiral of addictions fall into old red dresses, losing weight the easy way. An artistry of a tapestry. Woven with storyboards and drained from waterboards. The writing room becomes the torture chamber and all innocent victims are whipped twice as hard as those who are guilty, damned guilty, and damned proud of their crimes. Spout out the truth of the matter. Hands like hurricanes. Powerful. With grasping and divergent thumbs. Hands like a warm embrace. No desires for the weekend. Those bastards barely get away with the murder. Killing off of ideas. To replace them with selfish and self-righteous ideas. Hear me out and let me say one more time twenty times and get away with it. Cool to have me in the studio perhaps? I have no clue. I only know how tired and excited I am and feel to be.
"I'm not trying to impress you or anything but my musical taste will make you jizz your pants."
