shackle burns rub on through
long time comin’ too cells long out due
dooryard outing air comes short and timely
break today’s habit for tomorrow’s wise fellow
broadcasting brew; vomity yellow
pregnant and ******* up you did wrong
barren flesh in the obliterate womb
was it worth such worth enough to stop eating brood
stop thinking about just you
who is that in you?
a Christian?
Atheist?
or you split in two?

You taught me mauler of trent,
on a network relevāre.
Pixel mascots, but when reality sits,
3 hour snapshots.
The unwavering syntax scoped by excluder’s;
“He looks like he’s fasting, dissipating on spot.”
Some don’t know good quality accelerators at first sight.
You’ve got your semiconductor meeting an arranged free space.
Technically, inner currents are controlled by transistors and valves.
A semi-conductor with similar components.
But you are a lone current,
binding with no electricity, leading your own.
Fixating circuitry around and around like flocks when feeding.
As far as nature is concerned, it relates permissibly.
I want to furnish counterpart currents real soon.
If you don’t mind that is. Non divided, or obsolete.
Strict countermeasure meandering from start to finish.
If just no ending happens to occur, and concurrence rises.
We’ll say theory was proven. One of natures surprises.

She plays to mimic harps and dance and form thereof
The great bashed dingy thing is glossed with extra coats of drone string grease to ease and abound
Ribbing notes and notes meretriciously
Never brazened by shy low count numbers of heads when live
Always accommodated by the secreted bar life
She plays a province of many never back for second shows
Your luck is idled to capture the girl and her Bazantar
Zero rendezvous of travel by car
Zero by plane or train
She is as spurious as main instrument held
Unknown is her home, and unknown is her name
The many graceful played and sowed from baryton, vilola d,amore, lute, and sitar
Only predilection to her is he the Bazantar
Basking her flare slight tilted and wared
He is meek but bold with her as his gold and him as her stone
They are eternity prone
The 33-stringed object and girl implode
Nothing less than reciprocal to her Bazantar flow

“No, I said the song was stuck in my head”.

Well, maybe your just trapped in an entire melody.

Chained to a wall of harmonics.

Pinned to the floor by the tetra-chord.

Sequenced and submissioned in a pool of Lonian Mode and Aeolian Mode notes.

Your brain corresponds to a numeric ratio responding the principal intervals of a scale.

Hail to the symphony, to the orchestra.

Give your all to Pythagoras, the Greek philosopher of such discovery.

This ongoing evolution of stringed instruments and major and minor scales, forms, interprets, co-exists with one another, forever.

If you were to associate yourself to the modern tunings of ancients temperament, you’ll see that just because they have ultimately derived, does not mean that they have all died.

The song you are stuck in reaches way back in time, when world knew no hymn.

Any song is a reminder of a world that once was dim.

Tonight in front of the early AM infomercial,
I overturn,
And flip through a few times more
Finally, to attribute self dialect
Still watching images on a soundless screen,
mimicking their actions,
One thought only fills the mute void
________

Our leering fog days under freeways
Waiting all hours during school weeks
to hear you fill the mute void
_______

Technology, I claim,
Surprises the electro brain currents at such hour
Given the right two and a half hour sleep schedule,
A lack, made proceeding day event sheering
________

I just wanted you to realize that before your double self died
That monster we both made in unison
Is my death of a hideous past
The thought of him at this hour
Always fills the mute void
Puts me to sleep under fluorescence glowing
from the early AM infomercial.