What’s the best thing to play a bodhran with?

So long as I’m sleeping my eyes will remain shut. Tired, weary and closed inspirations slowly close. But close remains lost and lost closed my eyelids.

Smelling the scent my hairs prick and instinct sets in. Don’t think about why, how or when. The hairs on my skin know now where and how. I’ve smelt and taste is still to be dealt.

Take that clammy hand and feel this. Force it out into the dark and find what keeps the shadows still. Your fingers will creak when you grasp it and quaver with an uneasy nervousness. Squeeze till my knuckles crack.

Peel those red eyelids open, turn this light unto the stills of sense. Your cold but blood will soon warm your color. So long as you keep them open, the sea will force salt along their rims and you’ll watch those waves; steering your galley toward the moon.

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The strings break, but I keep playing.

grudge begone, become
passé, a way to drain. say,
have you heard the one?

bars, stripper noise. dirtbag detector. automatic rejector. who’s the guy sitting right up front there? why does he stare so much? you’d think he never saw a woman before. what does he wear that long coat for? does he want people to think he’s a pervert? where’d he go? probably off to off some unfortunate humanoid traveller. have you ever heard of the dixie cups? let’s go to the chapel of love and get married. not to each other but to strangers. wouldn’t that be fun? i suppose it’d be more fun if it didn’t really have to happen. walk, walk, walk, walk,
w
a
l
k

i’m hopin’ that you’ll be my baby.

It’s raining again.
It’s raining again.
It’s raining again.
It’s raining again.

earnestly searching
switchblade: putty in my hands
dumpster of my heart

no drums while i’m in the bath

We pass,
while you’re coming up for air

We pass,
when the day comes to an end

We pass,
while your ride comes to a halt

We pass,
when you pass us, chasing doors

The following interview was conducted under a new program called, “Dealing with inner city issues, Vol. IV”

We caught up with a young boy en route to school last Tuesday. His name is Maurice Stanley. He is 13 years old. He is of nebulous racial descent. Here goes.

Dave: Hi Maurice, how are you today?
Maurice: Good.
D: That’s very interesting. Now when you answered me just then did you feel even the slightest urge to attack me, physically?
M: What?
D: Well, what was purported by your initial reaction? Was it wholly derivative, or were there traces of substantialized legitimacy?
M: What?
D: I’m gonna stop you there. So, what’s it like growing up in the middle of a big city?
M: It’s hard on the streets.
D: I see. Can you tell me a little bit about your upbringing.
M: It’s hard on the streets.
D: Okay.
M: It’s hard on the streets.
D: I can imagine. I, on the other hand, make lots of money as a T.V. anchorman.
M: It’s hard on the streets.
D: Why do you keep saying that?
M: It’s hard on the streets. I grew up on the streets. And now I rule the streets.
D: Interview over!

Due to these obviously extreme threats of violence the interview was ended abruptly. We can only hope that we may one day connect with the inner city.