.
.
Breath
written on 1/28/00
I call on the opener,
and the world exhales and the breeze highlights my outline.
It collects and circles around my head as I swell my stomach's case.
This is more than a halo
This is a funnel
In a sacred pocket
Where all light can spill in
Thru the soft spot.
Breathe
And pull the waterfall's ether
icily warm
thru the plumbing as the valves pop:
the dolphin hole,
the sightless vision,
the throng of songs,
the touch conductors,
the golden engines of identity,
the hothouse of creation,
and the grounding wires of dancing.
Breathe deeper.
Personal pneumatics, rhythm, and the hum of living
mix and swirl with ingredients of experience.
Set the godspout in motion, wind like,
and hear the punchline to the age of the air.
Listen.
Its constant birthdays hold together my brief span of music and a time
where buffalo outnumbered houses;
Its constant birthdays remember Lao Tze, mass media, and the discovery
of fire as one period;
Its constant birthdays put its arms around every frayed fiber of my
sneaker, a small mountain in Turkey, and the wingtips of a living wren,
dead now by five hundred years.
Here is where all the you's, the me's, and them's exist
so let all our existences mingle.
Open a door, a window, a life.
Come reconnect.
Breathe it in,
out.
4 AM Poem
I cannot respond to the car crash of this conversation.
My mind dropped as mute as my limp tongue in witness.
All the severed limbs that spew out of your mouth,
all your headlines, wadded like spitballs,
all the rakes misused, daily, against your arms:
they hit the table and scrape the surface like quartz.
But I cannot concede to its royal grasp upon reality either.
All I can feel is this small white fireball
sprouting from my chest, mounting in my throat
that I want to share with you hotly.
I want to palm your cheekbone like a chalkmark.
Drilling past the bone of my nose is an old mantra:
"You are born alone. You die alone."
You nod in agreement.
But I can no longer tell whether this is a fact
or padding to cushion hope's tardiness.
Is this hermit pattern given or received?
I think both:
A self taught degree, committee approved.
I finally see this pin that lodged itself early on between my toes
and burrowed, slicingly,
a shark's fin cutting the water's skin,
till it synthesized itself into my instep.
Now I am ready to walk free
yet I am petrified to pull it out.
But here
now
I will yank this inbred staple, meatspecks and all,
and I'll trade you;
I'll see and raise you for the space in your heart that is rotting,
flapping black matter in the breeze of your bloodflow.
The fear hose seems spattered mist as I speak this invitation.
I choose to charge this blank space.
Here is another word to be made,
throw down your letters with me,
be it one time or one lifetime, I fuck not care.
Come, be blatant with me.
Or, if you must, wall yourself away in simple trembling eyes.
But you are not granted permission to tear apart this silly flagstaff
nor smother me in the petty duckshit quotes of frightened philosophers.
You will not undermine me.
I stand unerringly by my intentions to my own headstone.
I will die for them
and I will live for them as well.
Down in the Mouth
You seem down in the mouth
Your words are turned off
Your volume is swollen shut
Christmas gifts withouts receipts:
Cornrows of bruises -- for you
Half a tooth -- for you, from you
Spit in your hair
(reverse shampoo) -- for you,
not from you but
multiple donators.
You don't look so bloody good.
You seem down in the mouth
down for the count
down on the curb.
They packed off.
Aping and fellating each other, loudly
laughing.
Based off of a nightmare
Devolved,
Society shambled along wheezing.
All sights were filled with
accepted murders in public.
The rhetoric of the righteous devoid of purpose,
but executed cleanly.
Sex with out love.
Production.
Machines lined ev'ry walkway.
Steer clear of the gears.
Many a sleeve were snagged and the unfortunate
reeled in.
The teeth chewed the life from the children, while
a funeral train one
janitor in uniform with
a bucket and a mop.
The names ground out with the
bones
and forgotten.
A tuft of hair.
You missed a spot.
Newborn.
Again.
by Jeff Moller and Gregg Glory
Retreat, curled
Emerge melted -
sitting on a waveworn fence
between a shaven and shorn shepherd
and another clipped sheep.
The mitten-bitten fields
are iced too harsh this year
for the sheep to eat
without slipping like lazy sailors.
A bewilderment of flying snow
alarms my innocent village skin.
Sounds cloud this common ground -
litter of dispersals, sage shipwrecks,
the groan of shoreline pine,
diapason knells gone keeing
into the minature distance - oh where? -
all being beaten by wind and winter and weight.
With an icebreaker's brazen lurch
I cut into the blizzard
- is earth or water beneath me? -
icicle-burdened bows smash glass around me
my wits about me tickled awake by white,
dear thought,
never so precious
and precarious before -
the crystal edge of living.
What is solid is only a matter of the season.
Baby-face and black-coffee Heidi locks,
small-fanged, eye-sparring and playfully nibbling.
Caught in the whirlwind of your own defined ideas
your aura of sex
and your extension of more,
we spiral around and into each other
in the tornado of your matter-of-factness.
You talk about the peace in the library of your eye
yet windsurf in your variety of places and potential.
Jeff Moller
The Yin and Yang of Attention
written 7/9/98
The stage is a meal for my
undercurrents --
the giggle in the back in the back of the classroom unstifled,
the clenched speech unbottled,
the sleep made with smiles
or with secret laughter like when you went to camp.
In the most loving way possible, I hope you all get fucked.
The dormant flipside sated,
I leave this specific and defined place
with a little zen stuck between my teeth.
He labors under the camera eye for a raise.
He takes a running chainsaw
to the top of a rickety ladder in the backdrop,
and if an extra limb goes,
he hopes the audience will note his lack of presence
and save him from being just an extra.
The Examination
The following is a behavior and intellect examination necessary for all levels
and fields of human performance.
Be sure to use a No. 2 3/4 pencil.
Please fill in each microdot answer blank completely.
Relax, breathe softly, and do not leave your seat for any reason.
If any of these requirements are not met, the examination will be
considered
a failure.
Break a leg!
459. Sodium Bicarbonate is best used for:
a) baking purposes that absorb smell
b) brushing your teeth and conquering bad breath
c) making a paste grittier than KY jelly that absorbs smell
d) absorbing human smell
e) other
460. Ibuprofen is a pain reliever/fever reducer with a coating making it
easier to swallow. Four out of five doctors recommend ibuprofen for patients
that exist. A drug is a drug is a drug.
How has ibuprofen advanced society?
a) all of the above
b) all of the above and below
c) all of the above excepting what we cannot see, including God
d) x + y (z - 4/0)
e) yes sir/ma'am
461. You are standing on line for food. You have three handfuls of ketchup
packets in your breast pocket. Your boss is the cook, and he serves you a
pound of flesh. Should you:
a) drown the meal with ketchup
b) try to put the flesh back over your heart again
c) burst the packets and feign death
462. A train containing money, a house with a white picket fence, and a Freudian
virgin is leaving New York for California at 9:00am. You have a survival
kit strapped to your back containing 500 mg of ibuprofen, one pound of baking
soda, and fifty packets of ketchup (Each packet weighs one ounce). It's raining.
Unencumbered, you can travel at 3 miles/hour. The train travels at light
speed.
PART I : If you tried to catch the train, how soon will you burn out wearing
the survival kit?
PART II: How soon without it?
The Drip
With sucking sounds
She said she cared
and all I could think was she looked like a fish
But -hey!- who am I to criticize?
I just float like wood
my ass facing the sun like
Natalie Wood.
As the mortician turned her sunburned bloated corpse over,
vommiting stale water rotting the floor,
I don’t think he said aloud,
Party on dudes.
Like those goddamn turtles...
But then I can’t be bitter at little
Leonardo, Michellangello,
Donatello, and Rafael.
At least they were smart enough
to become warriors
before leaving their element
and not end up roadkill.
As for me,
although I’ve learned to float
(and bloat),
I only wish
I learned how to swim
before I fell in love with the water.
The Babysitter
Lyrics by MOLE
Music by MOLE and the Other Guy
I dreamed I was a bird when hurt became illegal
And eutopia we sang and chirped
And among the Congress of the noble regal eagles
Their beaks beheld snooty smirks
And I was a chick who was a bit disappointed
with the field guide picture of myself
And my hollow bones longed to roam and be disjointed
From the handbook of life upon the shelf
I wanted to do and try and sing and fly and that’s where the trouble
started
They cried I may go and hurt my health! Well....
So I left the nest to put my my best to the test, to prove to the group so
the protesting could rest
I’m a bird of my own song
And I survived the trials and lived for miles beyond the fated milestone
Where they predicted I’d go wrong
So they honed their eyes and scrutinized my next and every action
So when I’d fail my tail’d be held up
And I heard the cries when I devised my very own flight pattern
He’ll kill himself! Go get the judge!
The courtroom heard the pleas
He’ll hit a tree
Don’t set’em free
He’ll skin his knees
He could hurt himself indeed
The judge had looked concerned
so we adjourned
and hit the ferns
The vultures herded 'round me
Getting early on the worm
The judge heard my plight
But said my flight
could hurt my life
and so to put me out of sight
the bastard overrode my rights
The logic used was hazy,
He would save me from myself
For the good of birds he caged me
With the babysitter’s help
So I migrated to the care of ye olde babysitter
I'd probably been more scared, if I wasn't busy being bitter
At the babysitter's name, every hawk would stop his squawking
But I think he thought me interesting, cos I didn't give a dropping
So I sat inside watching the flock fly by
Wishing I could bend the bars and peck out all their eyes
The babysitter suggested, "Go even up the score
They don't want you to hurt yourself, but now who's hurt you more?"
And so for sport I took to court this legal lord of ours
And soon the bastard judge was back with us behind the bars
Thru the loss thru the law, his wife was filled with grief
And so she sued the pants off the lawman’s legal briefs
And one by one everyone joined us in the jail
Til the entire sanctuary sat there, looking kind of pale
And the babysitter looked around around
at the crowd and laughed aloud,
"Men and birds never learn! They say they want to fly
Then use their hurt to preserve their choice to never try
So will you open the cage, drop the rage, and fly back to your nests
In tru pursuit of your new lives, your liberties
and you happiness?"
© 1995 Shepmole Music
Blackout Time
Music by the Other Guy, Lyrics by MOLE
I was watching TV, reheating a meal
Now I'm sitting in a void
(I hear ) the popcorn bewilderment of my neighbors
And I'm still stuck on my couch annoyed
So I get up and bump my way around
Feeling shadows with squint sight
Walk through your house when you can't see
And you'll see things in a different light
I'm lost in my own home
A stranger, a baby in my home castle
And each task in my evening routine
Is three steps beyond being a hassle
Flail my arms with cartoon movement
And I act like a bug in jar
A candle would make me feel more human
If I only could see where the matches are
Find blind -- fumble for a flashlight over where?
Lost cause -- hear me drop it down the stairs
Crawl walls -- smack my head at every turn
Blackness practice -- this is a hell of a way to learn
That confusion breeds fear and fear brings instincts
That are much more primal
And the civilized people disintegrate
Into a clan that is much more tribal
Security codes, fiber nodes
Telephone, television, microwaves
But throw us in the dark
And our behavior’s worse than a bunch of apes
Outside, looters load up the van and go
Upstairs, they're banging on a piano
On the street I hear someone say, "You know,
We're acting like we did an age ago.."
Like a bunch of drunks trying to think
Reading a joke through spilled ink
Can’t see the humor when your the punchline
And all you depended on just said bye-bye
And with a rumble of thunder
Mother Nature she snickers
as if to say, "Remember, you're not the only ones with power.
Your progress, advances
are to me just crutches
and even a crutch, my children
is only made of wood.
Now don't fall down the stairs...
And when the computers crash, the companies cry,
except for those who find the typewriter.
Now where’s my lighter?
© 1995 Shepmole Musi c
Behind Closed Doors
Music written by The Other Guy
Lyrics written by MOLE
We say we know who everybody is
We think we know in just one look
We have assumptions to spare with a bio attached
Look at the picture; get the history matched
And if some one would tell us what went on behind the door
We'd point to the predictable; the rest we would ignore 'cos
We say we know
We think we know
I was working late with my face getting hairy
Alone except for some secretary
Who, I guess, didn't think that I could see her
She had taken off her dress
And was doing a dance around the desk
That outside the office would have been called weird
Then I saw beyond the role
It was then that she broke the mold
And I saw the person behind the door
As a stockbroker puts on leotards
Grandma sweats to an aerobic workout
Teenage girl outsings the birds
Freedom echoes in the empty house
Blessed is the one who is the one that he or she is whether the door is open
or not
In the grunge of my average day
I took a chance to get away
From my assembly line situation
And I tersely hailed a cabbie whose
City talk had made me smooth
And I finally got a glimpse of something beyond vocation
Even though he played his role
He shattered every single mold
And inside that little world I felt no doors
As a preacher does an Irish jig
Kids are peeking at a Playboy
Ralph Lauen rolls around in the mud
A gang leader plays with pre-school toys
A prom queen adores her bug collection
A politician has nothing to say
Jesse Helms sneaks away
And takes a quick listen to N.W.A.
And if you're the type of person
Who is sure that you are normal
And pure
Until the door is secure
Well, we'll let you figure that one out on your own
...so, are you?
Blessed in the one who is the one that he or she is whether the door is open
or not
So, are you?
May you never be a closet you...
© 1993 Shepmole Music
Cathedrals of Consumption
Music by The Other Guy and MOLE
Lyrics by The Other Guy and MOLE
If doubt is such a killer
Apathy is being dead
We'd probably change the world
But we like it here instead
Cos when passion's just an itch
And effort's just a pain
We'd rather gather bedsores
And kep our fun mundane
CHORUS: We worship holy income
Through rights of strict transaction
We sacrifice ambition
In cathedrals of consumption
Fragments of ourselves
On the floor for vacuum culture
Sucked in and integrated
Into a nothing structure
Closets full of gadgets
Each purpose long since lost
The reason for my labor
is to pay a pointless cost
My work is now a whore with AIDS
Infecting who she can
My blood is now the color green
And passed through many hands (Repeat)
Ohm, ohm
Ohm, ohm
Blank pages in my memoirs
Free spaces on my calendar
Energy sleeps in dust
Buried far from lust
As we the sheep are hearded out
Stepping on our toes
Through smeared and stained glass doors
The mall's about to close
© 1993 Shepmole Music
Dancing to Lost Words
Music and Lyrics by The Other Guy
Caught myself in a tongue-twister again
I lost my train of thought while someone else's mouth begins
I've got a friendly comeback that escaped that point in time
Trap a nervous answer that has nothing to do with what's on my mind
Slowly I fade in to the backdrop
Of that conversation that I can't stay ontop of
Sometimes my mind wanders; sometime my ego slips
Sometimes all I seem to hear is shit from someone else's lips
I keep on talking when I should be walking
So I won’t say another goddamn thing
As I jump to your pace to save a little face
And now its turned into a boxing ring
King of this hill with too much time too kill
Now I’m sorry I climbed but it looked good from the ground
You are the leader; I couldn’t defeat you
So now I guess I'll just climb on down
If you had caught me at another time
I’d’ve changed your mind
But as it is you are the whiz
(But OZ is mine)
If I’d said what's in my head would I have looked cool
Too late this time to change the rhyme into words that fool
You are above and I am a part of what's going down
I say "Touche" and walk away towards my homeground
You had the stance -- I couldn't dance
You stance stance, I couldn’t dance, couldn’t dance
I don’t wanna dance
© 1993 Shepmole Music
Heart on Ice
Lyrics by MOLE
A stream of cars in front of me
Rushing into the night
The roads chug too much, too fast
and start choking on a stop light
So the freeway takes a breather
All manuvers at a stalemate
My sweat is running quicker than
the moisture back on my Playmate
and this heart on ice is starting to thaw
and she’s waiting just round the corner
The marathon stretches on two miles ahead
To a sold-out performance at eight
And the victims of the bottleneck
are already ten minutes late
I get out of my car and cry, People, please
cut me a break tonight
I’m not here to sit in line for the show
I just wanna make a right
cos this heart on ice is starting to thaw
and she’s waiting just round the corner.
Now a cranky Bronco rolls down his window
says If I’m gonna be late, you’re gonna be late
What make you think you’re more important than us?
You’re lovelife will just have to wait.
So I stuff my Playmate cooler
right in his face so it drips on his pants
Dickhead! I’m not trying to get laid;
I’m delivering this heart for a transplant
and this heart on ice has started to thaw
and she’s waiting for me round the corner
and if you don’t let me through, both she and you
will be making a trip to the coroner...
How did we all get so self-involved?
And how do we stop?
© 1997 Shepmole Music
The Last Pine Cone
Words by MOLE
Music by The Other Guy and MOLE
Slow down your pushing me way too fast
I'd like my days of glory to last
My rope swing is by the old fort
Go on with adulthood, I'm not ready to abort
Cos when I take a look into the skies
I see shapes in the clouds and not dollar signs
My woods are trees, not potential properties
I don't view a car as a necessity
But I'm barely hanging from a flexible thread
My body's outgrowing the thoughts in my head
So how can I grow up--tell me please--
and still stay young to a certain degree
On the tree of youth, I'm the last pine cone
But the winds of poverty have not yet blown
So how do I grow without selling my soul?
Still stay young and reach my goals?
I see twelve-year-olds dead with sin
While grandpa beams through wizened skin
I see rich ones with cash to burn
While the greatest prize is what they've learned
I guess I can't deny what's real
But I won't cut off how I feel
Trapped between two worlds I'm bound
Gotta find that higher ground
And you tell me that it's only natural
But why does it feel so unusual?
Could it be possible
What you deem natural
Has missed the wisdom
Of my plausible?
I go to take a walk
Through the local park
To hear myself talk
Outside the city dark
Seperate from smog heaves
Independent this scene
I go to touch the leaves
And I feel an inner green
Now how did you manage
To branch out
After all
That we've done to you?
Now how did you manage
To branch out
After all
That we've done to you?
BRIDGE
SCAT PART
God only knows what hand life will deal
But I'll read it well and learn my own feel
And I'll be back to collect the final pay-off
Grow into a child amid this primal chaos
© 1992 Shepmole Music
Moby Moe
Words and Music by the Other Guy
Well, it seems that Moby Moby Moe
Melted away with the snow
So be so, I saw
Moby Moe go with the flow
A little little tiny boy
Caught up in a great big world
Giving up his shiny toys
For the rust of this dull world
C'mon kid, act like a man
Once again, yes sir, yessir/ma'am
Time to kill your imangination
and do as I tell you now
Get inside, stop screaming,
wear your tie, quit dreaming
You'll eat it, you'll like it and you'll
shut. your. mouth.
Hey Moby Moe
Hey Moby Moe
Hey Moby Moe -- where did you go?
Well sometimes I catch myself
Just staring in the mirror
And I hear myself saying
That I wouldn't wanna be ya
There's a side that I hide
As I walk outside
and find myself gliding
right along with the ride
A place in the race
though I try to change my pace
but I see myself sliding
in another person's face
As they tell me I should know
"Hey Moe, you'd better grow.
Give it up; you're getting old.
Come along with the flow."
And I say, "Yeah," and sneak away
to a place I cannot stay
A rhyme in my mind
that sometimes goes astray
So far away, from my everyday
but then I know I have to play
or get pushed out of the way
And the winter's keep freezing
The spring brings a thaw
The summer's burn us up
Till we can't wait for the fall
And I'd wonder to myself
as the years go quickly by,
will I ever find a place
between my feet and changing skies?
If I walk a beaten path
with umbrella in my hand,
will I lose that little boy
to an aging jaded man?
(Who's) set in a way
where he can't see night from day
and all that he could see would be
a point blank shade of gray
It wouldn't matter what you'd say
if it didn't fit his way
Forget about the weekends
he's still stuck on next Monday
Will I see my face
in the reflection of the T.V.
As it sucks away what's little left
of my own creativity
and wonder why I hid
that side of mine that's kid
that didn't get so screwed up
from your social continuity?
It seems I pay a price
for any trace of my security
I see so many vices
in my face you call maturity
My little side dies
with every new responsibility
as I age away a little place
inside a big society
© 1994 Shepmole Music
The Shovel
Words and Music written by MOLE
Uncover something new
Plant it in the ground
When it’s time is through
Bury it back down
A writer wrote a story
with a plot a little gory
Where the undead find rebirth
and tries to take over the earth
It wasn’t too unique
though the setting held mystique
and the theme centered on friends
though they’re all bumped off in the end
The public got attached to these characters in fact
enough to make a little green
and sell the rights off to the screen
An underground hit beckoned and producers planned a second
But how? the writers said
The main characters are dead?
The producers replied, We ain’t remaking Ghandi!
If you can’t bring’em back to life, hell, bring back as zombies!
The writers kind of winced like the chalkboard had been scratched
and they asked, Isn’t that kind of
stupid?
But the contract obligation
Overrode that observation
To avoid the litigation
They went back into their station
Took time on the creation
But the buyers got impatient
Cos the popularization
Reached the movie-hungry nation
So the characterization
Suffered from some degradation
And success initiated
Sunk right in to the basement
Clone your dying thoughts and they’ll walk a few more years
But leave it up to Hollywood to blow a really good idea
We’re being beaten repeatedly over the head
With a shovel that says, Here I am
It’s not a hammer damnit!
Dig up something new already
(I’m not a nail!)
And if the digging can’t be done
Who left the bodies in the sun
Or is it a new hit I smell
Welcome to Retro Hell
It’s the same old thing (Just the, Still the)
Over and over, over, over and over, over
Over and over, over, overexposure
Give me some closure and all things being equal
Just because I kind of missit doesn’t mean I need a sequel
Uncover something new
Plant it in the ground
When it’s time is through
Bury it back down
It mingles there with something else
Grows up a little seperate
There’s the shadow of its former self
But more that keeps it different
© 1996 Shepmole Music
The Waiter
Lyrics and music by MOLE
Who closed last night? This kitchen is a mess!
Who left their keys in the dining room? Oh, don’t tell me, I can
guess,
You gave him a dirty fork? The manager has a fit
My meal is up, (I) fight back the tears and the urge to quit and...
Good morning, sir. What would you like today?
I hope I can help you in any possible human way,
You didn’t order steak? You say there’s some mistake
I wish I could explain that our life was all the cook’s mistake but
I’ll see what I can do...
Hey Charlie! Can you heat this up? Table four’s a stickler
And when the customer’s always right it’s like serving eggs to
Hitler
Clark, you gotta check this guy out -- Hey you, get back to work,
The manager scolds me and I mumble, Yeah, work this, jerk, and...
How are the eggs, ma’am, would you like anything else?
Yes, it’s my job, to try and give you just a little help
I ring up a sale, put more cups up on the shelf
and I wonder what exactly have have I done to myself, but
I’ll see what I can do
And the dishes pile up and up and up to the ceiling
Like the tower of Babel, the customer and his meal
And thank God I ain’t the message, I’m just it’s vehicle
Oh, by the way, table four needs bussing
And if you need a cup of coffee, I’ll serve it up
And if you need a little butter, I’ll butter you up
Yeah, I am your waiter I’ve done my part and I’m waiting to see
what you will do
In the kitchen of chaos or the theatre of meals, I wait to see what you will
do
I’ve been servant, you’ve been guest; I’ve been observant,
you’ve been second-guessed
I wait to see what you will do
Hey man, this job it ain’t the best
but at least it pays the bills
And I go home
and I pay the bills
© 1991 Shepmole Music
With a Little Death on the Side
Lyrics and Music by MOLE
They’re going to make the change...
And you’re all going to die
Death is Coming
Death means big change
When you see death better call him death
Cos that’s his name
Murder begins with M
Death begins with D
Scizophrenic begins with S
Whatever that means
When I’m dead I guess I’ll die
Then I’ll kill you
Kill your father, kill your mother, kill your sister, kill your brother
and your little dog too
People always seem to think I’m not a real nice guy
Cos I like death with extra death
and a little death on the side
Bridge:
The Copulation of the Bloodstock -- with a little death on the side
The Perpetuation of the Khowar -- with a little death on the side
The Composition of the Crenoline -- with a little death on the side
The Viridity of the Foilage -- with a little death on the side
The Innocuous and Muciferous -- with a little death on the side
The dementia of exodontia -- with a little death on the side
The Lustre of the Monteith -- with a little death on the side
The Militaries of Fritilaries -- with a little death on the side
Death is a big ugly mean thing
It makes you dead -- Huh!
It’s a lot less comfortable
than going to bed
You can’t even go out shopping
When you have died
Death, and death and death, death and death, death and death
and a little death on the side
(The marlboro men of the apocolypse thunder overhead raining down loaves
of freshly baked bread...)
I’d like to have a cup of coffee please
The millenium burger with extra cheese
And instead of the fries I’d like some death on the side
Now let me get this straight
You want extra cheese on your millenium burger
Cup a joe to go, You want that decaf or regular? (Regular’s fine)
And instead of the fries you want some death on the side
Well I can do that for you sugar (Wonderful!)
You’re all going to die
© 1996 Shepmole Music
What the bridge really means:
The sex act of Thoroughbred horses -- with a little death on the side
The continuing existence of a branch of the Dard language in Northwest Pakistan
-- with a little death on the side
The general make-up of a hoopskirt -- with a little death on the side
The greeness of the plants -- with a little death on the side
The harmless and mucus-filled -- with a little death on the side
The insanity of dentistry that deals with pulling teeth -- with a little
death on the side
The shine of the large silver punch bowl (with a scalloped rim)-- with a
little death on the side
The armies of butterflies that are usually orange in color with black spots
-- with a little death on the side
JEFFERY MOELLER