t is characterized by a low-register brass melody, a fast chromatic guitar riff, and mood
surf-style electric guitar (played on a 1939 Clifford Essex Paragon) brass (trumpets, trombones), seven saxophones, and a rhythm section (upright bass, drums, piano a synthesizer
I
Kegal before me
Might then I'll love
You
We as one
Kegal before me
To intise my need
of suckegal
Kegal
Kegal
Your strength
Your wisdom
Kegal
Kegal
Kegal
My need for
Such
The hizzdom
Longful yearning
Your kegaling thrust
A need in your optimism
Kegal me as much
Yeah, that's you
Yeah it's me
Kegal me lady
Take the time for me
__________________________
Kegal Yosef
Kegal Yosef
Kegal me lady
Kegal me all night long
The Vik Flick Remix
---------------------------
flamingoes on one foot balance
talent like monkeys on bongos
playin' clarinets are baboons
raccoons a-hootin’ and a-swayin'
lions on slide-trombones
headphones catch them cryin’
giraffes a-bangin' chimes
Times of L.A. laid off its staff
The sun mounts over crumpled roofs and streets,
Beats from machetes and trombones disconcerts the air,
Brides and husbands-to-be bosa nova where joy and gossip meet.
Little ones run run past stalls,their joy sharp as knives,
Grandmas share gossip,drinking Joko Tea in chirped mugs.
While dear uncles sway,remembering old wasted lives
Smog billows from grills where meat roasts and fry,
Fires burn,mixing ululations and cheer,
Even the emaciated township dog pauses,ears to the sky.
Hubands-to-be jive,hats tilted,praising feats of might;
Ladies-in waiting in skirts that sparkle under sun.
Every furtive glance a nod and a story of delight.
As night comes,lanterns flicker in houses and alleys;
Music is tender,hearts stay buoyed and awake-
In hoboland love and joy endure amidst the pain.
Now rejoice the sounding brass
Let trombones and trumpets sing
Choirs of Angels weep with joy
As the bells of Heaven ring
We mere mortals here on Earth
We live and love and fight and die
Concerned with petty differences
While orchestras play in the sky
Composed, he walks towards the podium.
At first to applause, until a hush forms.
His heart beats like a water pump,
sweat drips - eyes fixed at his ensemble.
Audience anticipates,
as he stands at the nexus of musical creations.
With a brief glance - nods and closes his eyes,
baton in hand and a flick of wrist,
an oboe penetrates the silence,
violins trill and bass begin to roar.
His empathy connects with each note,
as his wand moves to the tempo,
conjuring symphonic magic,
softly then dramatically,
as emotions ebb and flow,
like waves weaving solo tones.
Spectators lost in imagination.
Gradually the melody flows faster,
as trumpets and trombones blow.
He feels a sharp pain in his chest,
as his pores drip like little rivers on his lips,
but he still guides the harmonic mood
with precision and clarity.
As the horns blare and percussions echo,
he loses grip of his baton - falls onto his knees,
clutching his breast - the music stops,
pianist plays her last key - audience gasp
he falls to the ground - curtains close.
As
The
Band marched
In the big
Parade, music played.
Trombones, drums. piccolo and flutes
Filled the air with happy song as they marched right along.
Marvelous music put everyone in a cheery mood and filled every heart with song.
Some float,
move on the diameter of a whim.
A few articulate between joy and grief,
others are hinged
so that ears can hear each other.
Most are scaffolds.
One hollow bone hums in the throat,
it channels the smoky music
of sub-conscious saxophones.
A few are honeycombed for memory
and procreation.
One is a cave for old mind-muddles,
it has a window view.
All the others
are flesh garbed trombones
that slide in and out
to unlock our whoopee cushions
with their skeleton keys.
© a day ago
sinking putt
kicking butt
sticking shut
humiliating hut
feeling gut
asking what
removing rut
dancing strut
having been cut
muttering mut
becoming nut
News reporter on MSNBC talked about
"Sinking putt" and I thought he had said,
"Kicking butt." Rest of words above also
came to mind.
Seems like cloth masks are a no no.
They are even having metal lined
masks.
What could you add to above?
TV Programs are also great like
77 Sunset Strip, the Shadow Knows,
Done da done done, done da done
done dah, Lone Ranger Rides Again,
Nation Wide on Your Side, Butter Milk
and Hi Ho Silver, Have Gun, Will Travel,
Gabby, Ten-Two and Four, Silver Bullet,
(I used to have a silver bullet pencil
sharpener), The Wave, Just the facts
man, etc. Married dear old dad;
The King and ?; Easter ? Leaf Clover;
Merry Go ? Long ? Short ?
? in a Corner; ? Bill; Donkey and
Elephant; African ? Where is it now?
? Trombones; ? Dalmatians; Merry-Go-?
Eiffel ? If you are an Einstein, what
are you being? Which president always
tells the truth and splits rails;
Name of Masked Man? What do you
do to shenanigans?
I am the drum major
my baton twirls I catch with ease
my whistle so shrill
the band follows my every move
the beat of the big base drum
and the magic sound of a dozen trombones
then the pipes begin to wail
and all are in awe at the military tattoo
the lonesome piper as we march
every one in the crowed hushed
we march as if on air like we would not dare
The pipes in my ears glow
takes me back to some mist soaked glen
when armys met and pipers played dragon
And the drum major ignored the shot
his whistle shrill pipers loud
led the the army through the glen
Sword and musket clashed
still the drum major led his band
shouts and curses filled the land blood
and gore filled that day
There were no winners in a war
but the drum major walked on
and now the pipers play amazing grace
and the drum major William Wilburforce had the crowd on its feet
Through his band they saw the past
and every one said out loud
as the drum major blew his whistle
what we fighting for
And his piper played amazing grace
and love filled this place
Most days I'm in such a hurry to get home
Then sit around and do nothing or play with my gnomes
Love my little friends
Playing games of pretend
My gnomes try to trick me by playing their trombones
Clarinets, bassoons, oboes, ugh.
Flutes, oh, yes, Native American flute music please.
Violas. Don’t be prissy!
Cellos. Ha. Ha. Who wants to carry one to school?
First and second violins. Too stringy. Twangy. Hurt my ears.
Trombones and tubas. Oh, yes, please.
Now for my all- time favorites besides the guitar.
Drums
Cymbals.
Bam.
Crash.
Boom
Bam
Give me percussion or do not give me any music at all.
Encore
Cold metal touches my lips
Breathe
Fingers extend
Breathe
Chatter from the audience
Fills my ears
Breathe
Lights from above
Blind me
Breathe
Baton
Moves up
Breathe
Up
Down
Breathe
Tempo
Dit-Dit-Dit
Breathe
Drums sneer at me
Breathe
An explosion
Of sound
Fills the ears
Breathe
A harmony
A symphony
Breathe
Tubas
Low and booming
Breathe
Trombones and Trumpets
Extending each
Note with ethereal beauty
Breathe
Clarinets
Blessing the note
With delicacy
Breathe
Flutes
An island of paradise
Enters with the grace
Of a dove
Breathe
Swooning
At the pitched
Mountain of sound
Breathe
Waves
Hit the audience
With the delicacy of a mother
Breathe
Enveloping them
With the evolving mood
Ominous
To Joyous
Crescendo
Breathe
Clapping booms
In my ears
Stamping of feet
Deafening
Yet craved
Yet beloved
Baton rises
Once more
Once again
Symphony
Overwhelms
All thoughts
All emotion
Breathe
Sing Me an Old Style Song
Sing me an old style song,
With pretty flowing phrases;
A story of love gone wrong,
In other times, in other places.
No trumpets blare, just sweet trombones,
A crooner, smooth tongued and mellow.
Hurting, aching, quiet, for me alone.
Sing me an old style song.
Let bottled tears stain my cheeks,
As your freckled nose appears before me.
For I cannot cry to beats and bangs,
Please sing me an old style melody.
That I may cry and cleanse my heart;
Empty and ready for a new filled start.
Flutes, ahead laying the routes
Oboes they off to Villalobos
Harps, dusting off vessel tarps
Violin silenced by engine din
Cello, matching the revving bellow
Piano sad in the canoe
Clarinets are taking private jets
Horns, fasten seatbelts the Captain warns
Cymbal off checking the gimbal
Saxophone, sorry plane now flown
Bassoon missed flight in June
Trumpets in London loving crumpets
Timpanis tanning in Florida Keys
Tambourine, ouch you forgot sunscreen
Drum in Jamaica sipping on rum
Trombones still crossing time zones
Tuba, where else but Cuba!!
Joan Jones hates scones.
She throws, at them, stones.
She throws those stones with all the tone in her bones.
Her angry moans as the stones had flown
were as a drone of an off-the-line phone.
For Joan’s lone loathing of scone’s she’d known
since childhood’ve grown, and since infancy shown.
And if one’s not careful, their cover is blown.
A scone makes its way into poor Mr. Jones;
why couldn’t he have eaten a few ice cream cones?
Joan said, “I thought I knew you, Mr. Jones.
Your consumption has shown that I should now live alone.”
For making snap decisions Ms. Joan was so prone;
but it at this point, Sir Jones has the long-piece wishbone.
She minds not trombones, clones, cologne or calzones,
but here in Joan Zone all scone owners disowned.
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