BASS

jammin starts around 07 sth

Zappan Nights

Alone the poet sat:

I’m an abuser, abusing music for my encephál-apócalýptic rides,
Electric bass dabbing over funk like Jaco over Sly once,
whatever your mind may dance to, living under this sky.

There is in the blinking corner of my left eye
a light, it resembles Sunday morn, time to
close the blinds. To pee- prevent
post-church ante-lunch foggifying beer-
slurping. I’d rather stay at home,
religiously uneducated, uninfiltrated
playing with my freshly-washed member
laying nude on my couch and experimenting
some more on rum shots. Seriously.
Blank-plating my decision-making
gray matter up there.
Being a dyed-in-the-wool genius
makes not for easier living.

And I’m happy, an angry Sunday morning
has decided to rain it all down on me.
Let’s not get phenomenological specific
on ” it”. So what you’re supposed to do
all alone in the gray dusk of a drunken
Saturday night? I’d say improve on your
drinking …*
Oh maybe my first non-fiction book
would be ‘bout Zappa because he was so much
like a God Dionysian, dirty, misogynist some may say,
but you don’t have to dwell on his assumed failures, do you?
Well, it would be a book of fiction,
I fear. Would just taste better that way.

Listen, no!
I will not look up the intern-et
For previous biographies.

I won’t write it anyway: the best biography
on him.
I’m too narcissistic for a biz like this.

I would do instead that, but you need a map to catch up:
I’d have my own cows unbranded grazing
on the plains of the Azores, feeding on them.

Will maybe invite Iberian, French and Polish friends
over to feast on red meat on carnival,
and in that mood of communal sacrilege
compose vino-indentation Neo-metaphysical
praising to the bleeding sun above
the windy clouds passing, accumulating
rain showering down to wet Coimbra and Bordeaux.