alan2here

He stands to play More than a tune Communicate a set of moods A mental state Interpolate, as he looks To read his audience, like a book As they sit there Not thinking much Conductor stairs His mind a rush Reviews the scene Orchestral stuff Guitars and drums, is this enough Oh not for him, electric too Mere genre boundaries will not do Piano forte more distort-ay Violin, not just somewhat smooth Or slightly thin, or strained or simple chords But not a din Some of all will be heard But not at first We start of slow Where they expect to go Connecting amps and circuitry To stir up sound Not meant to be Constrained by ins

over the deserts across the sea the flying ship sails free no water need hug its bow or coasts restrict its movement now improbable it seems but here a sight for all to see its silk sails and diamond bow on leather decks the greatest now of all the ships ever built although by who we'll never know the flying ship tips too and fro as it sails away, as if never seen the flying ship, was just a dream

Out of the either, from which the darkness, as soon or sooner see. A constant drop, behind itself, defines reality. True darkness while, black as the peel, behind the deepest night. Made still of spines of time, while always woven, accumulates the role of no such great analogy. Out of this place we must the man who was not said to me, He spoke as one who spoke before, already having said and even sooner seen, That in those troubbled times where light was loss and coins had yet to be, Came a creature, sides of three, straight as no curve and small as ice but larger than obligatory as far as any unforseen and other human be. This creatu