Some pals of mine in the next town over (which a' be Brunswick, Maine), have this house with a basement with a smattering of instruments, broken instruments, gutted things, objects, objections, and grins. Once a month or so they hold a pow-wow involving said basement, operating under the moniker, Bad Bus... so here's a delicious build-up-and-bruiser with the buncha' us, having had sips of booze and enduring all that rancor on this last past Election Day. Who was there... Alyce, Ryan, & Joni (who did all the banging & shaking & donging); Matt (on trumpet (?) and that's DEFINITELY his yell!), Adam (& his theremin), and my nervous guitar. Whooot!
An unabridgement in hen pox, sturgeon-hex, tom-fools, Bader, tossing it all in the air, and talking into a tape recorder when you think nobody is looking...
Crank Sturgeon
There are times when the old hen would take her pecks away and leave us for fools. I wasn't hep to the plan, but sacks of beaver-caps and stovepipe wipes had us fearing less-so; the endangerment of an encroaching aurora-roar, oaring its way up side-paddles and wires slung low over the Mampa River were good enough to keep us satiated, satisfied, and bladdered. Hopes were that the bird (named "Dick" in heather-booted Florentine wastes of tongue) would keep on with the lay, excitedly hamming out those ovarine sequences like a bunny dribbling its m&m's all March-long, but ach... too fetid a fantasy to be true! Treasons and season switches, well, the rest is on your own goad.




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