birdmad nostalgia and angst and sarcasm.

missing my saxophone and my heroin, my gun and my dagger

the city and the dust and the faint roar of the traffic from the nearby highway

faded family pictures, the Doors CD in my stereo, the hip-hop booming from the car rolling down the street, heavy metal from the speed-freaks on one side and the same ranchera stuff my dad used to listen to

the symphony i am composing in my own head without being able to write it down

let me listen and i can play by ear, it's the same when i watch a film, the dialogue sticks in my head, the office procedures, the product specs from my factory days

what i know and what i create and what i love may not be art to some, but within each bit of the sonic debris and all the little broken pieces are the reference points against which i define myself, if these things lack value, do i, as their by-product lack value as well?

i have been below the surface and seen behind the machinery and know that nothing was ever as pure as we want to believe

i have pointed the gun and have had it pointed at me
the sirens in the night and the cats in the alley

and this is what it's like when worlds collide

i've never been one for study when experience is both the better and the bitter teacher

i mainline my jazz like a needleful of china white.

eat the rythm, it should feel like sex and taste like honey, and the sound should reach around like lover's arms

and it will still be purely subjective in the end
sarpedon except within your own eyes 000902
what's it to you?
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