A Songwriter’s Fine Book Of Finesse; Tales From A Singer’s Crypt — Morning Papers XXIII

Deep As The Night — As Nimble As The Striped Feline — Impassioned As Any Precious Thing; Imparted in Sweat, Cared in Blood.

THE LAST PAPER:

Rough is the spotted ink on dotted paper; empty as fallen leaves, yet deeply endured to the mark it leaves on asphalt. They’re right there is the place where you shall find my chapbook of songs; a songbook deeply precious, and utterly of my own weaving.

Years marking, years passing all being refined through its watchful eyes, like the guarding fellow to the hourly weather tower, with his eyes strung out to the attention of his foreknowledge, which he gains by the trust through reading the clouds and the faces of an eroding rock face — that is his belief, he may never how or where, by he’ll know when it’ll arrive, as he has known it on days like it before; such a belief is utterly beholden to his own way of things, Grand or kept in simple frocks, his prayer is like a message sent on the wing, and by such sights, he lives his life by the bristling leaves.

On first impressions, what do you think this is? To whom does it concern — clear as the moonlight, gentle river, it is led by some strange figure such as myself — who do you think I am? And for some of you, who have known presence for a certain bout, Who do you think I am? By which proportions — why, of course, I am but a mere rambler Seer, with her enviable trove hauled behind.

To speakth of my hearts, the loving and all their opportunities, in all the constraints here, elsewhere they lay outside of the Poem and of the Journeying championing piece, as the sway is of my way known. Song, hurtling the jowls, strengthening up the throat for a stroll down the road of Binsky, Minnie the Moocher! So goes my zany trail, throughout my times, ever it comes back to Music, oh sweetening music! the heating jewels of the precious time, by emotion and the amble till it is felt so closely like the cupping hands to make the skin transparent, whilst the hunkering ice, freezes all around you — thus, is the respite of song, and thus is the dignity of the symphony.

Oh, frabjous day!— I cannot get enough of saying that recently, though the Ah, Brilliant cannot be bested! — ever swaying through my approaches, to be reuniting with an old affair of song and courting dances, hopping along happily on my first foot, in my Swedish brawn; — ABBA, such a darling to me, with voices to shrill all voices that deal with the thrilling of evil-like vices, hidden away in the cruxes of the night; down the street, past the pillar, over a branch. Mystic in chords, Mystic in name and coincidence, Oh, I love ABBA.

Not only for my Swedish accords and tendencies, and even for you Frida and the song of Norway, but for their richness, listen to those harmonies, them nifty riffs, that sneaky piano of yours dear Benny sir! And you — you, those lyrics, ah Brilliant! Grounding by sound Bass and bringing drumming, ah, naught much better to my ears, and I say that as a fully-fledged way swayer!

And with such goodness struck over my heart, as I let the Music speak, it comes to me without reservations, I know for sure a certain song of mine, Precious Thing is driven by their zenith, and by the aforementioned nudge to the Swing of the 1920s, ah, and you have little chance to know of what I am speaking of?

“Ye great apeth for leaving them so!”— I tell myself, in the most cross-examining of keys; “Now Doctor’ — YES, speaking to myself — ‘tell them of what you do and why you do, even by your precious preambles, please do get there, and you do get there, Doc!”

Why, I will oblige myself for the sake of prosperity, I shall come down well to you my adoring tykes, for a moment here and speak of my endless escapades, and my, they certainly are to be counted in the endless amount — ironic as it may seem.

Evidence by the name, the thousands of songs that are in my tumultuous wake; laid to waste, laid down, laid up, laid off, and laid all around, Oh, come with! And stare with big gleaming eyes at the entrails of the creativity in course! Such mirth, such wreckage, such wonderment led on by the whys… Why Did you do this, why did you mess it up, you Smith of songs of naught, why, why for such betrayal of things! The number is ever engrossing, so hush my lips.

Such is the benefit had on the laden shoulders of the peeking goodness of all that before, to brush off me shoulders the stinky breath of these misadventures, says the good clumping voices of subverting pitches — ah, ‘tis the might of you modern people, you sure enough how to talk and perhaps talk too much.

I am tempted much too much, more than I allow elsewhere with it comes to my music; flaunting on the tapping of hats in care, so after all my cheeky jesting I want to sincerely depart from you to speak of my current adventure with this album: A Different Time And Place. Oh, feels queer to make mention of a champion I have been in leagues for seconds numbering past a few hundred-thousandths of measurements.

To make a chapbook of it all, it shall come to fruition; you can certainly believe my reflections on music are coming, but when? Ah, never make a bookmark on a time traveler, though a time whirler may beseech me better, that is on you, my dear wayfarer.

Ta-ta Now, ever on, the wildering departure attunes us to, till next time.

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THE MORNING PAPERS:

The Curation; Our Publication:

DAY’S REFLECTION — A POEM FOR RESTLESS FOLK

As ever, Dear Reader.