vrijdag 9 februari 2018

fart song

This one is on fartin. Ay-ay-ay, the fart song. Ouh Ouh Ouh. Out! out! get it out!
House! Get it out of the house! The entire world! Out! Out! Leave the room!
Look at it the way she does. Take my angle, honey, she says: fartin can't be done in a decent way. That's precisely what I think; I nodded; undressed; in one word, it was a true sentence.
Turn on that two turb globe. Sneak around the stack. One way or the other, I had to, so
I made her turn, as I always did, What's the hike for. And it felt, euhm, heavy rather. Fixed.
And it made good isolation. Wipe the turd from the face of earth and this belly first. How
shall I put it. Some nice and decent word to begin with as she tossed half of history on the curb.
In no hurry Joey /and she /she /far above it, hackin; pinnin; no trouble to fuel her spirit.
Liquids. Canned liquids. But then it came. Ough. It felt as newspaperreading, knowledge from above.
An Atlantic Depression approachin full speed. It hit the coastline hard as rimmed milk.
Honey, read this. Ouh Ouh. And it really need, it really has, it, it, it, has to do it. Explosives.
No evacuation plan. Euhm, honey, I say. Without the girl noticing any of it. So I stretch a leg
and then she's doing that silly thing, kissin; wait. Wait. Wait, wait goddammit. It's, it's, it's. Art.
So I stretch the other leg. Oumph. Switch on the groove, that is, as far as any of the circum-
stationary elements allow to do so. Atlantic depressions have one bad habit. No angle on that thing.
Would this really be our first night, I wonder. Really? Crushin half of the Russian army.
4.000 oxes, horses, 4.000 horses, no soldiers and 70 pages, 70 pages only, 70 pages sellin bullets for yank sweet.
I used to be a philosopher, honey, and, philosophy, believe it or don’t, philosophy ain't the worse part. Sold 70 pages on any shit.
Well, here’s a present to the farmer’s dog.

[Draft written at Hot Club de Gand on Wednesday 7th of February and performed later that night in a set with drum and trumpet]

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