space is where all the good stuff is happening
(a zeze, a six stringed two necked instrument.)
its necks are infested with worms,
eating away the insides of the wood,
producing small heaps of dust on the ground
where it leans against the wall.
the musician plays,
while the neck is disappearing under his hands.
eventually, it will break under the pull of the strings,
maybe even in the middle of a tune.
but, at this moment, we can still hear the musician play.
the bird songs are complex
and simple.
the bird songs are fine.
you hear yours,
i hear mine.
the bird songs are fine.
(texas 2008)
nothing on this table’s mine.
nothing on this bed is mine.
it may have been, for a short time.
nothing in this room is mine.
the future of rock is        sand.
(
extending a thought by smith and/or burroughs,
http://www.oceanstar.com/patti/intervus/9601bomb.htm
)
and the children were playing and running round and the birds were singing in the trees, singing beautifully –
just an old man, sitting on a bench, he could not smile –
he kept pointing at the birds, saying
“that song is mine! mine!” –
the children could not even be bothered to argue with him –
they glanced at him briefly with eyes saying “oh! you poor old fool” then dashed off again, playing.
they left him sitting there.
one day he died.
the birds were still singing.
( http://yro.slashdot.org/story/12/02/26/2141246/youtube-identifies-birdsong-as-copyrighted-music )