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It's something strange and mashed up and leaves you feeling violated and dazed and with those "feelings of sadness"--like a chance meeting leading to child—like a fight picked on alcohol impulse and leading to a triple stabbing—like a lonely cloud on the western horizon temporarily brilliant orange from hiding the sun—like the moon whose phases are identical to all observers on Earth, and which is everywhere about us—like Jesus on the half-pipe—like an obedient congregation—like the clanging of the gongs to summon limbic trances—like the smearing of the red ochre paints and the spearing of the sows—like the capitalized (on purpose) Tables and Chairs picked from one situation and abstracted for the benefit of the local associative processes—like mnemonics that just cause greater confusion and require second-order mnemonics—like the quale of qualia, existing qua an obstructive anti-mechanism—like a bunny’s ears or a fish’s air bladder: perfectly adapted replicable mechanisms—like arpeg-chords, a little bit of non-official jargon—like the myriad fundaments of the Actual: concrete, convective, four-dimensional space-time, five-dimensional Fourier space, brain stem, the cell, all somehow wrapping around—like the thought inexpressible in words which is rendered non-existent by that very property—like inner beauty—like inner longing—like limbic pining—like the body politic longing for justice but remaining apathetic—like biblical references ending up bringing myriad shit together—like critiques of “tenuousness”—like the aesthetics of exhaustion—like the practical ethics of nihilism—like “death is death, no matter the means”—like being simultaneously shit-together logical and hiddenly fucking post-modern—like bear caves—like the concept of hibernation I hade not considered for years—like leeks and some very fine low-key empty love stories ending with non-pretentious little epiphanies: “N— always said: “you don’t need your own car; you just have to be friends with someone who has one”. But I want my own car.”—like the hopeless longing of banging wet condoms at the discmen containing “the Pill”—like brown eyes and red vessels—like pinkeye and pills to choke a horse—like the spades and trowels of the underground people—like fiddle strains reflecting off the church steeple—like a shattered Faberge egg—like the millions of points of light in a Swarovski store dulled out by smoke and mirrors—like the sparse and spare melodies of Debussy—like the onion-shaped steeples of the Eastern Orthodox churches—like black cardboard paper to brace the windows during the bombing runs—like the shit-filled estuaries of Calcutta—like the buffered and re-buffered river systems with dissolved heavy metals—like piles of dying llamas, alpacas and other dromedaries—like the greatest biological mistakes—like our messed-with neurotransmitters—like the burning ash tree in the back of my head spilling smoke out of my eyes—like the unrequited metallic clanging of precision-parts lathes—like cogs and gears—like obvious signs of possession: arms around, screening functions, silencing the dissent, slapping the cheek and jowl—like the weeping of a wonderful and legitimate Jesus who I weep for as well, though not as theatrically—like the anger of Odin and the falling off of Yggdrasil—like the stacks of bound leeks on the supermarket shelves singing in metaphysical agony: “why me? Why me!?”—like the crushing hammer of Shiva’s belly-dance—like the fighting of Bristol punks in front of the neon marquee casting shimmering greenness on their skin—like the brown eyes crushed by an oil spill—like the hopeless realism of our millions of suicides—like the spirits of the ancestors housed in our rocks—like the gradually hardening neural plasticity—like ideas coalescing out of the chaos into mandalas with foundational assumptions at their centres; tapestries on our walls—like an ancient grudge settled around a samovar—like the quales of pills—like advertising and spareness and sparseness of the highways soundscape—like the twilight of the jaywalkers—like the extreme aspirations of the kayaker longing for Doritos—like the aboriginal poetry recited to the ten thousandth line—like the tales we told of ancient loves—like the velvet thrones of the oligarchs—like the office tower’s lit majesty visible through a ground-floor suburban window—like sunsets reflected off the golden reflective façade of a smaller office block—like the memory work of those killed early—like quality versus crushing voluminous sledgehammers—like distillations of the past three millennia of human logical longing—like a complete unknown emerging to strangle the spider—like the spider fighting back and prevailing with a little help from his friends—like the brotherhood of vervet monkeys—like the fires of the sisterhood initiation rituals of nameless, timeless history—like the slow emergence of the objectivity of Truth—like endless varieties of enlightenment—like gongs chiming—like institutes being built to divert crow migratory patterns—like trees on which friends and lovers climb—like epiphanies ripped from melodramatic films—like the secret that was ironclad coming undone with a little help form peepholes and glory holes—like the cackling of the HIV culture despite the medical technician’s finest attempt to turn off that racket so the doctors can think—like a sublimated sense of humour that is patently no longer funny—like paint fumes chipping away at the vetromedial prefrontal cortex—like constellations scrambling their lines 50,000 years in the future—like new narratives overtaking old narratives—like shorter streams of thought choking out the longer attempts at contemplation—like a pick-up truck colliding with a tram—like the leaves of the saguaro bush bashing the Basho tranquility of swaying stems—like pistils and stamens growing sticky in ancient anticipation—like bees and pistils caught up in un-Christian love movements—like the rude form of the studded racial joke falling out of my window and shattering like so many Faberge eggs—like the repetition of “like, like”, like: “taken up with you”, like: “will you be mine?”, like: “sadly stupid and bereft of content—intentionally”—like my one thousand lovers stroking the ultra-thin latex preventing us from coming together—like happy families around filial dinner tables sawed up by the patriarch—like the attitude that anyone can marry and dominate anything they so chose for the purpose—like the politics of using dashes, not periods—of using incantatory repetition over substance—of violating substance and tearing its delicate tissues for the sake of ultimate stylistic masturbation—like the most disturbing temporary asides—is it still permitted, because the pendulum—my God, the pendulum is swinging back!

Consider: "Verse: Em - A - D - Cmaj7. Repeat a few times. Bridge: Em - A - Cmaj7 - B7. Chorus: Em - B - Em - B - C - G - B7. Build me a song."