It’s like saxophone jazz cash
Bee bop wuhdizzit?
It’s like saxophone jazz cash
Bee bop wuhdizzit?
Aww crap! I stepped in shit!
Doin’ the Doodoo Shuffle
Scrape slide scrape scrape slide…
Thunder Rock Junction
Moon Base 5’s PLACE TO BOOGIE
Two dollar Tuesdays!
Christopher Nolan’s “Inception” is about how it’s alright for corporations to literally and figuratively play God as long as it is all in the name of helping out the shareholders and otherwise keeps world peace as intact as you’d ever find it outside the boardroom.
Also, don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger.
So that’s a cool one.
apples and oranges
bagels and doughnuts
cigarettes and clarinets
purse them between your lips
one you suck
the other you blow
either way you’re making smoke
just like when you’re making love
where there’s friction
where there’s rhythm
a banana’s just a banana
until it falls out of the tree
and then it’s you, baby,
and then it’s me-ee
tickles and turnips
chocolate and nicotine
music is a lotion
like a lazer beam
soothes your rash and blinds the eye
music is the magic that lifts the sky
into the air
way up there
where there is no air
just floating things
around and round
like apples and oranges
and bagels and doughnuts
and clarinets and cigarettes
in their funky ships
and in the caves
are the monkey apes
whistling their tunes
of smooth, smooth seduction
how great is this?
It’s super great.
Even though I have a rash
This kid can play. His mouth is like a magical hole. A conduit to a land of fantasical winds. That when they blow, oh man, it powers the sounds. It’s the harbinger of sonic dreams. Calling all the wizards! Calling all the witches! Calling all the prestigitators! This kid is playing your song. Can you hear it? I bet you can. You know you feel it. In your thaumaturgucal loins. Getting them hot. Getting them bothered. When it goes like this–
Do you feel moved? Deep down. As in your necromantic bowels? It can’t be helped, this kid can blow, man, this kid can blow. Through his lips comes that voodoo sound mixed with the soothsaying melody of the fairy boys.
THE MUSICS OF THE MYSTICS! TOOTINGS OF THE GODS! RHYTHMS OF DRUIDS! PHWEEB! PHWEEB! PHWEEB!
This kid can play the clarinet! This kid can jam with the ghosts of enchantment! Stars and spirits and sortilege massaged by his tunes, casting their spells like angels breaking wind.
It’s new jazz, baby!
This kid’s alright!
The rhythm of the night came down hard last night.
Like a goddamn soulful atomic hammer.
Gave me the night passions real bad and heavy like.
Had me on the toilet well past the midnight hour, deep beneath the unblinking silver eye of the moon.
Moving my bowels to the nocturnal music like a bowl of spiritual chowder on a ship of flesh at sea on an ocean of emotion.
Each drop of melody splishy splashing on my body like God’s Golden Rain, moistening my skin to a resplendent musical sheen.
Bee deep bee dee beep.
That soulful sweet sound of toe-tapping rippa tippa all up inside the brown canal.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.
Like the mailbox that fell in love with the glove compartment.
Their forbidden love had eyebrows raised all over town.
But just like the rhythm of the night they took their tomy doored container passions and stoked them sweetly in the shadows until, like a cannon in a coal mine, they blew the roof off the thunder barrier.
Boom boom boom beep deep doom doom.
Love licks erotic songs like the infinite tongue in the sky.
And that taste you’re hearing? That’s the smoke of love.
Whiff woofer whomper whomp.
The music slithered from the speakers like a frickin’ jungle snake. A soulful anaconda that slunk up his movin’ and groovin’ anus and constricted his spiritual gonads until they oozed sweet, sweet melodius nectar that flowed out and down the inside of his hairy flanks, pooling in his sleek Italian leather loafers. The fluid squishiggered around his dainty toes, freshly pedicured, and as the mood juice filtered back in through his wide, hoofy pores, his toes began to flitter-gas-flopp-gus.
The flitter-gas-flopp-gussin’ journeyed on up, and got his ankles jam doggin’.
His ankles jam dogged further still and his shins started donker-honking.
All that donker-honking sweet talked his knees into a real heavy zumbulation.
Zumbulating on up, kicking them thighs into a bad woppa-whomba that made his hips stand up and go, “Sweet Jeezum with them corn fries, Wade!”
All this super serious movement and his gastric sauce began to seriously boil over, sending bubbles of sick and sticky goopanooba floating up his gullet. And he frickin’ burped, “hot the damn sandwich!” And he frickin’ burped again, “holy mother of agglutinative pleasure!” And like a rucksackin’ dufflebag full of heavy lascivious cream that fell off a roof and splashed on the pavement sending all the citizens, who moments before were just going about their whatever, sending them all now into a real chubby mother of an arousing. Nobody was safe from his gambolic intensitudinous coulis. Minds were blowing like they was a rhumbatic tornado in a sambatic hurricane.
Man, this guy can move! Man, this dude’s a dancer! If only they could put him on teevee! He’d be a millionaire!
Come on world let’s get in the game!
I think love is like scuba diving. But instead of an air tank and all that other mumbus jumbus you’re under water with a tuba. And instead of breathing you’re just playing the crap out of it, chugging and huffing away and big fat bubbles float all easy does it to the surface and then burp out into the air with a mighty BWAMP! And there’s a Japanese whaling ship nearby and they hear it and the one guy turns to the other guy and bellows in filthy working man’s Japanese “it’s the flatulations of a great blue whale in heat!” And they all go bonkers and just start hurling their spears into the water like they were Godzilla 2000. All WHA-WHA-NEE! And HAAAA! And BA-BA-BA-BA-BANZAI! And then the captain comes out of his cabin in just his nautical leather lowers and the ocean mist and salty sweat is glistening on his bare, beautifully hairless chest and he looks down at these maniacs just waging sweet hunter’s justice on the sea and he screams in the Emperor’s own Japanese, “Will you cantaloupes pipe down! I’m tryin’ to write a sweet haiku in here ’bout whalin’ life and I need just one more goddamn syllable!”
“But Captain, we heard the sonorous thunder of whale fart!” The oldest of the whalers said.
“I don’t give a musical toilet about that. I’m doin’ art in here. Now you honeydews swab the deck!”
Yep, that’s love alright.