Jon Ureña's Blog, page 18
June 29, 2024
Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 18 (Poetry)
Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
I used to know every contour of your face,
The exact timbre of your voice,
The way your body pressed against mine,
Your taste, the salty scent of your sweat.
But your traces are flaking off my brain;
In the seams and margins of my memories,
Bugs and patches have appeared,
Corroding the integrity of a past
That I'm editing, shaping with bias,
As I revisit it time and time again.
Your gaze, your smile, your laughter,
They all fade away into oblivion
With each ticking second.
Izar, I beg you, stay with me.
Let's leave this suffocating city
On a motocross odyssey spanning Europe:
Hundreds of kilometers of highways,
Speeding through the countryside
Past petrol stations, fields, and farmhouses.
We'll make love on the shores of the sea,
Then sleep under a blanket of stars.
Let's rent bikes and ride along the Seine.
Let's explore the winding streets of Venice,
Swim in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean,
Surf the waves of Hawaii or Costa Rica,
Climb the ancient terraces of Machu Picchu.
For the rest of my days, I will care for you,
Your unstable mind, your fits of rage.
Growing up, I feared venturing far
From my neighborhood, from my parents.
I dreaded exposing myself to risky experiences.
In my mind, I saw my mother's stern face,
Ready to scold and ground me
For daring to struggle against the vines
She had wrapped tight around me.
Roam the breadth of Spain? Travel the world?
Such adventures felt as distant as the stars.
I was convinced that even as an adult,
I wouldn't organize something so troublesome.
But that year, I stood in the blazing Roman heat
With my teenage son beside me
And my daughter's small hand grasped in mine,
Gazing up at the façade of the Pantheon,
Its towering Corinthian columns glowing faintly,
Burned by the merciless July sun;
Its triangular pediment pockmarked, scarred,
With projectile strikes from World War II.
I longed to appreciate its grandeur in solitude,
But a throng of tourists choked the square.
A listless guy stood dressed like a centurion,
His helmet adorned with a plume of dyed horsehair.
The muscle cuirass concealed the flab
Of a modern man suited to a desk job.
The Pantheon didn't belong in this post-apocalypse,
Among the disoriented survivors of the 21st century,
Who lacked the knowledge to recreate
The sunlit glory of their once eternal past,
And who had lost the will to rediscover it.
Well, what did you think about the sights, Izar?
We never had the chance to escape together,
But I carried your memory to Rome.
I hope you enjoyed the trip.
In my little corner of the world, whenever I could,
I escaped to the freedom of an isolated bench
Along the wooded lane containing your memorial stone.
There, beneath the sunlight filtering through branches,
Hunched over a notebook, I poured my memories of us,
Capturing in words every detail I could remember.
I discovered that writing tricked the brain
Into gilding moments and affixing them to its cells,
Regardless of their authenticity.
Drawing, writing, they couldn't save me;
They just helped me endure this lonesome life
For yet another day.
But maybe the right words could save
What remained of you.
In my heart, a secret garden bloomed.
Pollen sparkled on iridescent flowers,
Their petals fanning out like peacock feathers.
In this floral realm where time stood still
And death could never enter,
You, enshrined within a poem or story
That wouldn't fade, rot, nor be reduced to ashes,
Could live eternally.
---
Author's note: the songs for today are "This Is the One" by The Stone Roses, and "Sit Down" by James.
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
I used to know every contour of your face,
The exact timbre of your voice,
The way your body pressed against mine,
Your taste, the salty scent of your sweat.
But your traces are flaking off my brain;
In the seams and margins of my memories,
Bugs and patches have appeared,
Corroding the integrity of a past
That I'm editing, shaping with bias,
As I revisit it time and time again.
Your gaze, your smile, your laughter,
They all fade away into oblivion
With each ticking second.
Izar, I beg you, stay with me.
Let's leave this suffocating city
On a motocross odyssey spanning Europe:
Hundreds of kilometers of highways,
Speeding through the countryside
Past petrol stations, fields, and farmhouses.
We'll make love on the shores of the sea,
Then sleep under a blanket of stars.
Let's rent bikes and ride along the Seine.
Let's explore the winding streets of Venice,
Swim in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean,
Surf the waves of Hawaii or Costa Rica,
Climb the ancient terraces of Machu Picchu.
For the rest of my days, I will care for you,
Your unstable mind, your fits of rage.
Growing up, I feared venturing far
From my neighborhood, from my parents.
I dreaded exposing myself to risky experiences.
In my mind, I saw my mother's stern face,
Ready to scold and ground me
For daring to struggle against the vines
She had wrapped tight around me.
Roam the breadth of Spain? Travel the world?
Such adventures felt as distant as the stars.
I was convinced that even as an adult,
I wouldn't organize something so troublesome.
But that year, I stood in the blazing Roman heat
With my teenage son beside me
And my daughter's small hand grasped in mine,
Gazing up at the façade of the Pantheon,
Its towering Corinthian columns glowing faintly,
Burned by the merciless July sun;
Its triangular pediment pockmarked, scarred,
With projectile strikes from World War II.
I longed to appreciate its grandeur in solitude,
But a throng of tourists choked the square.
A listless guy stood dressed like a centurion,
His helmet adorned with a plume of dyed horsehair.
The muscle cuirass concealed the flab
Of a modern man suited to a desk job.
The Pantheon didn't belong in this post-apocalypse,
Among the disoriented survivors of the 21st century,
Who lacked the knowledge to recreate
The sunlit glory of their once eternal past,
And who had lost the will to rediscover it.
Well, what did you think about the sights, Izar?
We never had the chance to escape together,
But I carried your memory to Rome.
I hope you enjoyed the trip.
In my little corner of the world, whenever I could,
I escaped to the freedom of an isolated bench
Along the wooded lane containing your memorial stone.
There, beneath the sunlight filtering through branches,
Hunched over a notebook, I poured my memories of us,
Capturing in words every detail I could remember.
I discovered that writing tricked the brain
Into gilding moments and affixing them to its cells,
Regardless of their authenticity.
Drawing, writing, they couldn't save me;
They just helped me endure this lonesome life
For yet another day.
But maybe the right words could save
What remained of you.
In my heart, a secret garden bloomed.
Pollen sparkled on iridescent flowers,
Their petals fanning out like peacock feathers.
In this floral realm where time stood still
And death could never enter,
You, enshrined within a poem or story
That wouldn't fade, rot, nor be reduced to ashes,
Could live eternally.
---
Author's note: the songs for today are "This Is the One" by The Stone Roses, and "Sit Down" by James.
June 23, 2024
Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 17 (Poetry)
[check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better]
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
Do you remember, Izar,
That one time in the basketball court
Of our old primary school?
Your hair looked like honey.
Pale wisps floated about your face.
You glanced up at the sky and said,
"The sun's right above. Look!"
While shielding your eyes with one hand,
With the other, you gestured toward the hoop,
And the round, golden sun,
Glowing with midday heat,
Swished through the net.
You grinned triumphantly at the perfect shot,
The work of a godly markswoman.
In my memories, in my dreams,
Our teenage selves, wild and free,
Dressed in the sun of summer,
Roamed iridescent streets together
Under a sky layered like an oil painting.
One day, after a shower,
I wiped the fog off the mirror
To reveal a man's naked body
Glimmering through the vapor.
The once lean-muscled figure,
Sculpted laboriously in the gym,
Had softened under the looser skin
To a layer of resigned flesh
That gravity insisted on dragging downward.
With both hands, I grasped my gut,
Stretching it as if to rip it open
And let the aging machinery spill out.
I locked a tortured gaze with the mirror,
With that cold-eyed stranger
Whose wrinkles carved on his face
Deepened each passing year.
His hair and stubble were flecked with gray.
The flaws I scarcely noticed during the day
Beamed back as if lit by headlights.
Every trace of my youth had eroded away;
I had transformed into a middle-aged man
That you, forever eighteen,
Would hardly recognize.
A rapping on the front door shattered the static haze.
When I opened the door, I faced an apparition.
Your chocolate eyes glowed with affection,
Your smile showed off your crooked teeth.
Rainwater slid down your sleek red jacket,
That framed the Evangelion T-shirt underneath.
You had finally returned from the beyond
To replace my dust with your stardust.
I hugged you tight, lifting you off the floor,
And you wrapped your legs around me
While giggling like a girl in love.
"How long has it been?" you asked.
"Far too long."
"Will you come with me?"
In the corner of the street gleamed
Your beloved Aprilia Red Rose,
Its fuel tank painted yellow-and-white.
High-rise chrome handlebars,
A padded leather seat with visible studs.
Exposed engine components turned the Aprilia
Into a rugged and warworn mechanical beast,
Ready to race through the landscape
With its raw wounds laid to the wind.
As I rode pillion on your bike,
Its throaty rumbling vibrated through the seat.
I rested a hand on the thigh of your jeans,
And felt the firmness of the flesh beneath.
You swerved onto Navarra Avenue toward the highway.
The road ahead lay empty, an invitation to speed.
We passed by an endless procession of ghosts,
Whose whispers blended with the engine's rumbling.
The low, crimson sun raced toward the horizon,
Stretching wavering, unnatural shadows.
My heart pounded, my breath came in gasps.
Dread clawed at my mind: we might never arrive.
Even as you speeded,
The destination receded farther and farther.
"We're never going to get there, are we?"
"Where is there?"
"Wherever it is we're going."
Your whipping hair framed the profile of your face,
And your lips curled into a sad smile.
Back when you told me you were quitting school
To pursue the goal of becoming a motocross racer,
Should I have convinced you to continue your studies
And to use your spare time to train,
Even at the cost of seeing you less?
That one time in your parents' apartment,
When your father stomped out of your bedroom
While threatening to go beyond words,
If I, instead of just comforting you,
Had confronted your old man,
Even at the risk of ending up bruised and bloody,
Maybe I would have intimidated him enough
That he wouldn't have marked you
With a red handprint on your cheek.
If I had instilled in you the fear
That you might ruin both our lives
By crashing during one of your reckless stunts,
Maybe you wouldn't have died so young.
I see you back on April 27, 1999,
When you scratched flakes of paint
Off that basketball pole.
The wind tugged at your ponytail,
And shiny raindrops dripped
From the soaked tips of your hair.
You turned your youthful face to me
And revealed your plan to leave.
For a moment, I panicked;
Would you untether yourself from me?
But you asked me to run away with you,
To drift through Spain on your bike
Like pirates on the open sea.
I said I would follow you anywhere, didn't I?
When I replay that night in my mind,
Sometimes I see myself answering you,
And other times, I assumed you knew the answer.
Had I answered enthusiastically,
Promising that nothing and no one could stop me
From accompanying you to the ends of the world,
Would you have chosen to speed through the rain?
Did I let you die thinking I had abandoned you?
---
Author's note: the song for today is "The Wait" by Built to Spill.
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
Do you remember, Izar,
That one time in the basketball court
Of our old primary school?
Your hair looked like honey.
Pale wisps floated about your face.
You glanced up at the sky and said,
"The sun's right above. Look!"
While shielding your eyes with one hand,
With the other, you gestured toward the hoop,
And the round, golden sun,
Glowing with midday heat,
Swished through the net.
You grinned triumphantly at the perfect shot,
The work of a godly markswoman.
In my memories, in my dreams,
Our teenage selves, wild and free,
Dressed in the sun of summer,
Roamed iridescent streets together
Under a sky layered like an oil painting.
One day, after a shower,
I wiped the fog off the mirror
To reveal a man's naked body
Glimmering through the vapor.
The once lean-muscled figure,
Sculpted laboriously in the gym,
Had softened under the looser skin
To a layer of resigned flesh
That gravity insisted on dragging downward.
With both hands, I grasped my gut,
Stretching it as if to rip it open
And let the aging machinery spill out.
I locked a tortured gaze with the mirror,
With that cold-eyed stranger
Whose wrinkles carved on his face
Deepened each passing year.
His hair and stubble were flecked with gray.
The flaws I scarcely noticed during the day
Beamed back as if lit by headlights.
Every trace of my youth had eroded away;
I had transformed into a middle-aged man
That you, forever eighteen,
Would hardly recognize.
A rapping on the front door shattered the static haze.
When I opened the door, I faced an apparition.
Your chocolate eyes glowed with affection,
Your smile showed off your crooked teeth.
Rainwater slid down your sleek red jacket,
That framed the Evangelion T-shirt underneath.
You had finally returned from the beyond
To replace my dust with your stardust.
I hugged you tight, lifting you off the floor,
And you wrapped your legs around me
While giggling like a girl in love.
"How long has it been?" you asked.
"Far too long."
"Will you come with me?"
In the corner of the street gleamed
Your beloved Aprilia Red Rose,
Its fuel tank painted yellow-and-white.
High-rise chrome handlebars,
A padded leather seat with visible studs.
Exposed engine components turned the Aprilia
Into a rugged and warworn mechanical beast,
Ready to race through the landscape
With its raw wounds laid to the wind.
As I rode pillion on your bike,
Its throaty rumbling vibrated through the seat.
I rested a hand on the thigh of your jeans,
And felt the firmness of the flesh beneath.
You swerved onto Navarra Avenue toward the highway.
The road ahead lay empty, an invitation to speed.
We passed by an endless procession of ghosts,
Whose whispers blended with the engine's rumbling.
The low, crimson sun raced toward the horizon,
Stretching wavering, unnatural shadows.
My heart pounded, my breath came in gasps.
Dread clawed at my mind: we might never arrive.
Even as you speeded,
The destination receded farther and farther.
"We're never going to get there, are we?"
"Where is there?"
"Wherever it is we're going."
Your whipping hair framed the profile of your face,
And your lips curled into a sad smile.
Back when you told me you were quitting school
To pursue the goal of becoming a motocross racer,
Should I have convinced you to continue your studies
And to use your spare time to train,
Even at the cost of seeing you less?
That one time in your parents' apartment,
When your father stomped out of your bedroom
While threatening to go beyond words,
If I, instead of just comforting you,
Had confronted your old man,
Even at the risk of ending up bruised and bloody,
Maybe I would have intimidated him enough
That he wouldn't have marked you
With a red handprint on your cheek.
If I had instilled in you the fear
That you might ruin both our lives
By crashing during one of your reckless stunts,
Maybe you wouldn't have died so young.
I see you back on April 27, 1999,
When you scratched flakes of paint
Off that basketball pole.
The wind tugged at your ponytail,
And shiny raindrops dripped
From the soaked tips of your hair.
You turned your youthful face to me
And revealed your plan to leave.
For a moment, I panicked;
Would you untether yourself from me?
But you asked me to run away with you,
To drift through Spain on your bike
Like pirates on the open sea.
I said I would follow you anywhere, didn't I?
When I replay that night in my mind,
Sometimes I see myself answering you,
And other times, I assumed you knew the answer.
Had I answered enthusiastically,
Promising that nothing and no one could stop me
From accompanying you to the ends of the world,
Would you have chosen to speed through the rain?
Did I let you die thinking I had abandoned you?
---
Author's note: the song for today is "The Wait" by Built to Spill.
June 21, 2024
Remastered “Go Away, Stay Away” from Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 3
In the last post, I went on about my recent discovery of audio mastering techniques. It included my first remastered song whose band frequencies I had molested. Listening back, it was quite a mess. I decided that Audacity, instead of my abilities, was mainly responsible, so I acquired better audio editing software (namely iZotope RX, recommended by good ol’ castrated AI ChatGPT). Thanks to it, I have remastered the song “Go Away, Stay Away” into a version that I wouldn’t know how to improve anymore. Check it out.
[and indeed you can click here to check the song out. I have to direct people to my site somehow.]
[and indeed you can click here to check the song out. I have to direct people to my site somehow.]
June 20, 2024
On audio mastering (and a remastered song)
As I was “remastering” the songs that make up the third volume of Odes to My Triceratops, I started thinking, “surely there’s fancier stuff to do to improve a finished song’s quality other than just messing around with its sound levels.” That ominous thought led me on a few days-long journey into the art of audio mastering. At one point, I opened one of my previous songs I thought finished, only to find out that the exporting process had clipped the hell out of it. I had no choice but to face that I had no fucking clue what I was doing.
Some reading later, along with help from ChatGPT, led me to the following steps to master a song:
1. Normalize original WAV at -1db.
2. Save original WAV as a 24-bit/192KHz WAV stereo file.
3. Load exported WAV.
4. High-pass filter at 30hz (roll off 24 db).
5. Filter Curve EQ with preset (looked up good general values).
6. Normalize at -1db.
7. Apply multiband compression with the OTT plugin at 20% depth.
8. Normalize at -1db.
9. Split the stereo track and pan the channels to -70% and 70% respectively.
10. Perform a thorough EQ check using the spectrum analyzer, adjusting frequencies along the way.
11. Use the Limiter, Hard limit to -1 db to ensure the track doesn’t peak.
12. Normalize at -1db.
[check out the rest of this post, and a remastered song]
Some reading later, along with help from ChatGPT, led me to the following steps to master a song:
1. Normalize original WAV at -1db.
2. Save original WAV as a 24-bit/192KHz WAV stereo file.
3. Load exported WAV.
4. High-pass filter at 30hz (roll off 24 db).
5. Filter Curve EQ with preset (looked up good general values).
6. Normalize at -1db.
7. Apply multiband compression with the OTT plugin at 20% depth.
8. Normalize at -1db.
9. Split the stereo track and pan the channels to -70% and 70% respectively.
10. Perform a thorough EQ check using the spectrum analyzer, adjusting frequencies along the way.
11. Use the Limiter, Hard limit to -1 db to ensure the track doesn’t peak.
12. Normalize at -1db.
[check out the rest of this post, and a remastered song]
June 18, 2024
Tips on producing songs with Udio
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
Some months ago a revolutionary AI tool came out: Udio. It allows you to produce professional-sounding songs. Although I know how to play the guitar, I’ve always been, as a systems builder, more interested in putting songs together than learning how to play an instrument, and I also rarely enjoy interacting with people, so dealing with human musicians was out of the question. Udio has allowed me to come up with about seventy-five songs, so at this point I think I’m qualified to give tips on this subject.
I only start thinking about the musical side of things when I have the lyrics ready. They tend to change very little during production: mostly to make them sound better or rhyme, if the opportunity arises. I also add little touches like laughs, comments, and vocalizations like “aah,” “yeah,” and such, which tend to make the song sound more natural.
As far as I’m concerned, the lyrics don’t need to be elaborate. I mostly focus on sentences that transmit a particular emotion. I admire complex, very carefully-written lyrics like Joanna Newsom’s, but they wouldn’t work for the kind of songs I’ve wanted to make so far.
Once the lyrics seem ready, I pinpoint the stanza that will determine the general style of the entire song. It’s usually the chorus (I don’t write multi-chorus songs, so that’s easier to determine for me), or at least the part of the song that needs to be nailed to fit your mental image. Udio uses structural tags to help the AI determine your intention: [hook], [chorus], [verse], [bridge], and such. I don’t think I have ever started a song with a segment that wasn’t a [hook] or a [chorus].
Apart from structural tags, Udio’s AI was trained with loads of “mood” tags. I have collected as many as I could, which is an ongoing process, and I have relied on ChatGPT to classify them. For example, under “musical qualities” and “abstract” I have the following to choose from: “cryptic, complex, existential, dense, glitch, abstract, generative music, improvisation, mashup, eclectic, lobit, microtonal, minimalistic, sampling, silence, sparse, tone poem, uncommon time signatures”. All these tags are functional, and manipulate the generation in appropriate ways.
I go through all these mood tags and, using the same seed for the generations, I produce some to get a feel for what I’d like the final song to sound like. More often than not, I don’t know what general genre the song will fall in. I base my choices on what my subconscious likes; an “I’ll know it when I see it” situation.
Once I’ve determined the mood of that particular segment, I go through my collection of instrument clips that I have painstakingly amassed from YouTube videos. Some time ago, I read through online lists of all the instruments in the world, then I determined which had matching tags in Udio. While pre-producing a song, I listen to each of those instruments one by one and let my subconscious decide if it would fit any of the stanzas. It’s a very painstaking process that usually takes about two hours, but it pays off in the end: the songs I have come up with would have been far less interesting otherwise.
Once I’m happy with the distribution of instruments, I go through a massive collection of genres, plenty of them bizarre (like psychobilly and cowpunk, two of my newly-discovered favorites), and ask Udio to generate loads of clips. If the style of an initial generation impresses me, I tag its name with its genre. If any of the generations is good enough that I would have gladly produced a whole song out of it, I mark it as “[name of song], Pt. 1 candidate.” If I end up with more than one candidate, but I’d rather discard them all but one, I pick the best, then I remix it by adding on top of it other genres whose associated generations had impressed me. That’s how I ended up with a mix of dance punk, surf rock, and cajun in “Paleontology of Pain.”
The best source I’ve found to learn more about genres is the fantastic site musicmap.info. You can zoom in on every supergenre, figure out how most genres relate to others, and listen to songs in those genres.
Once I’ve determined the best seed generation, always 33 seconds-long, the real fun starts: I extend that segment in both directions to render the rest of the lyrics. I keep prompt strength at 70% (forcing Udio to mostly obey my prompt, but giving it some room for improvisation), lyrics strength at 35% (it sounds more natural, allowing the singer to repeat some words or hallucinate as Udio sees fit), and generation quality obviously at ultra.
The context length is extremely important: the AI will only rely on what you allow it to see when deciding how to style the new generation, so don’t include in the context a part of the song that you wouldn’t want to “tint” the extension you’re working on.
Along the way, you may love some generation except for a few seconds where the singer blurted out gibberish, some instrument could have sounded better, etc. That’s where inpainting comes in: it patches over those parts without altering the rest of the song. Note, though: inpainting in general sounds worse than full generations, particularly the drums. No idea if that’s something that the team behind Udio will be able to improve, so if you can trim the part of the song you would have inpainted and request a full generation instead, do that.
When I’m happy with the full song, I download its wav file and open it in Audacity. Udio often screws up the sound levels, so I mess with them in Audacity until I’m happy with how the entire song sounds. Sometimes I screw it up myself and have to “remasterize” them because I have inadvertently produced clicks, which was particularly noticeable in the version I uploaded of “Synaptic Flies.” Editing a song easily takes up to an hour, or an hour and a half.
That’s about it. You can check out my albums here. I have two of them ready, and in a few days I’ll upload the third volume of Odes to My Triceratops. I hope you have learned something from my obsessive attention to detail, in case you’re into this bizarre business of putting together AI-generated music. And if you read this far even though you weren’t interested, don’t you have better things to do with your time?
Some months ago a revolutionary AI tool came out: Udio. It allows you to produce professional-sounding songs. Although I know how to play the guitar, I’ve always been, as a systems builder, more interested in putting songs together than learning how to play an instrument, and I also rarely enjoy interacting with people, so dealing with human musicians was out of the question. Udio has allowed me to come up with about seventy-five songs, so at this point I think I’m qualified to give tips on this subject.
I only start thinking about the musical side of things when I have the lyrics ready. They tend to change very little during production: mostly to make them sound better or rhyme, if the opportunity arises. I also add little touches like laughs, comments, and vocalizations like “aah,” “yeah,” and such, which tend to make the song sound more natural.
As far as I’m concerned, the lyrics don’t need to be elaborate. I mostly focus on sentences that transmit a particular emotion. I admire complex, very carefully-written lyrics like Joanna Newsom’s, but they wouldn’t work for the kind of songs I’ve wanted to make so far.
Once the lyrics seem ready, I pinpoint the stanza that will determine the general style of the entire song. It’s usually the chorus (I don’t write multi-chorus songs, so that’s easier to determine for me), or at least the part of the song that needs to be nailed to fit your mental image. Udio uses structural tags to help the AI determine your intention: [hook], [chorus], [verse], [bridge], and such. I don’t think I have ever started a song with a segment that wasn’t a [hook] or a [chorus].
Apart from structural tags, Udio’s AI was trained with loads of “mood” tags. I have collected as many as I could, which is an ongoing process, and I have relied on ChatGPT to classify them. For example, under “musical qualities” and “abstract” I have the following to choose from: “cryptic, complex, existential, dense, glitch, abstract, generative music, improvisation, mashup, eclectic, lobit, microtonal, minimalistic, sampling, silence, sparse, tone poem, uncommon time signatures”. All these tags are functional, and manipulate the generation in appropriate ways.
I go through all these mood tags and, using the same seed for the generations, I produce some to get a feel for what I’d like the final song to sound like. More often than not, I don’t know what general genre the song will fall in. I base my choices on what my subconscious likes; an “I’ll know it when I see it” situation.
Once I’ve determined the mood of that particular segment, I go through my collection of instrument clips that I have painstakingly amassed from YouTube videos. Some time ago, I read through online lists of all the instruments in the world, then I determined which had matching tags in Udio. While pre-producing a song, I listen to each of those instruments one by one and let my subconscious decide if it would fit any of the stanzas. It’s a very painstaking process that usually takes about two hours, but it pays off in the end: the songs I have come up with would have been far less interesting otherwise.
Once I’m happy with the distribution of instruments, I go through a massive collection of genres, plenty of them bizarre (like psychobilly and cowpunk, two of my newly-discovered favorites), and ask Udio to generate loads of clips. If the style of an initial generation impresses me, I tag its name with its genre. If any of the generations is good enough that I would have gladly produced a whole song out of it, I mark it as “[name of song], Pt. 1 candidate.” If I end up with more than one candidate, but I’d rather discard them all but one, I pick the best, then I remix it by adding on top of it other genres whose associated generations had impressed me. That’s how I ended up with a mix of dance punk, surf rock, and cajun in “Paleontology of Pain.”
The best source I’ve found to learn more about genres is the fantastic site musicmap.info. You can zoom in on every supergenre, figure out how most genres relate to others, and listen to songs in those genres.
Once I’ve determined the best seed generation, always 33 seconds-long, the real fun starts: I extend that segment in both directions to render the rest of the lyrics. I keep prompt strength at 70% (forcing Udio to mostly obey my prompt, but giving it some room for improvisation), lyrics strength at 35% (it sounds more natural, allowing the singer to repeat some words or hallucinate as Udio sees fit), and generation quality obviously at ultra.
The context length is extremely important: the AI will only rely on what you allow it to see when deciding how to style the new generation, so don’t include in the context a part of the song that you wouldn’t want to “tint” the extension you’re working on.
Along the way, you may love some generation except for a few seconds where the singer blurted out gibberish, some instrument could have sounded better, etc. That’s where inpainting comes in: it patches over those parts without altering the rest of the song. Note, though: inpainting in general sounds worse than full generations, particularly the drums. No idea if that’s something that the team behind Udio will be able to improve, so if you can trim the part of the song you would have inpainted and request a full generation instead, do that.
When I’m happy with the full song, I download its wav file and open it in Audacity. Udio often screws up the sound levels, so I mess with them in Audacity until I’m happy with how the entire song sounds. Sometimes I screw it up myself and have to “remasterize” them because I have inadvertently produced clicks, which was particularly noticeable in the version I uploaded of “Synaptic Flies.” Editing a song easily takes up to an hour, or an hour and a half.
That’s about it. You can check out my albums here. I have two of them ready, and in a few days I’ll upload the third volume of Odes to My Triceratops. I hope you have learned something from my obsessive attention to detail, in case you’re into this bizarre business of putting together AI-generated music. And if you read this far even though you weren’t interested, don’t you have better things to do with your time?
June 4, 2024
Lyrics of the album Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2
[Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better
You can download the album Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2 through this link. Below are the lyrics for all the songs it contains.
Plan for a Renegade
First things first, I wanna talk to you about
Things like war, motherhood, and fatherhood.
Anyway, there’s only a verse about my friend.
See, Lorenzo has a mission that his parents planned:
Gotta shoot a renegade deinonychus (he’s a chupacabra).
Hell’s Gate-a-ray, his parents are sending him down to hell.
“Okay, this is going to sound too crazy.
Hell’s Gate-a-ray, ole-yeter. (gibberish)”
Lorenzo asks, “What was that, Gramps?”
“Shut up, you son-of-a-gun. Next, I’m tellin’ you the truth,
We’re gonna build a missile out of your heart, ’cause, um,
You, uh, you ain’t, uh, been an angel, but, you know,
You’ll repent and, uh, uh, don’t let the devil tempt you, boy.
An old fart like me, I know.”
The Griffin Hum
Ladies and gents, whoever’s listening,
Please allow me to introduce William Griffin,
Writer, singer, guitarist, human jerk.
Why don’tcha say something, Griffin?
What? Say what?
Hum, hum, hum, hum,
Hum, hum, hum.
Whatcha hum,
Whatcha hum,
Huuh?
If I had to summarize William Griffin
In one meaningful deed, it would be…
Hold on, I think the chorus is coming.
Let me tell you about it later.
Oh, song’s over. Nevermind!
Strings and Gunpowder
Grab your guitar!
Grab your gun!
Grab your life
And have fun!
Wake up at night and sing a song
Under your friend’s bedroom window.
Hey, Lorenzo! Lorenzo!
Plan to sleep all night long?
(“Shut up, asshole!”)
Yeah! It’s good to be back!
It’s good to be back!
La-la-la-lee
La-la-la-way,
Yay-eh!
Put your fingers on the strings,
Put a bullet in the chamber.
Boom boom boom!
Bang bang bang!
Hit ’em right in the heart!
Prehistoric Punk
Lorenzo is one ugly son-of-a-bitch.
His eyeballs are poison green.
With those claws, scales, and horns,
He’s like the truest form of punk.
Lorenzo the triceratops
Carries a tiny soul inside his skull.
That goddamn freak walks around
Like he could topple city blocks.
He’s got the guts of a machine gun,
And a portal to hell inside his throat.
Sing something, Lorenzo!
Rawr, rawr, ra-rawr!
Grr, grr, gr-grawr!
Rooo, rooo, ra-ra-roo!
Rawr, RAWR, RAAAAWR!
Crap
This crap is mine, and I am proud.
I’m gonna keep on singing, singing, singing.
I’m gonna keep on singing my crappy song,
And nobody can stop me.
It’s my own little song
That I’ve made myself,
And I’ll sing it any day
If I’m not getting beat up.
I’m gonna keep on singing, singing, singing.
I’m gonna keep on singing my crappy song.
I will sing forever and ever and ever,
Or until the day I die.
Cruisin’ While Horny
My friend Lorenzo is a triceratops
With a portal to hell inside his throat.
He would drive around for hours on end,
Trying to find some chicks.
Where did you get that car?
I don’t even have one.
What the hell are you doing, Lorenzo?
What the hell are you doing, Lorenzo?
Every day he’s doing this.
Dude, I’m worried about him.
This whole thing is getting out of hand.
When I told Lorenzo I was scared for him,
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “My bad.”
Lorenzo 2.0
Lorenzo the triceratops from space,
Born and raised in a cave.
His parents named him “the Obliterator,”
For that’s what he does best,
But they called him “Lorenzo” for short.
He’s not your average triceratops:
He doesn’t eat plants.
He eats the souls of the dead.
Lorenzo: update version 2.0.
New features include:
More soul-eating capacity.
Greater evil force.
Dark matter bazooka.
Enhanced chupacabras.
Fixes include:
Fixed flaming diarrhea bug.
Dating’s not his strong suit, though.
When Lorenzo dated that allosaurus,
He lost his mind and had to leave.
A relationship doomed from the start.
Lorenzo’s not afraid of anything.
When he heard the allosaurus was after him,
He said, “Bring that bitch over here!
I’ll smash her skull with a crowbar!”
Father God
My mom’s the sweetest flower,
But she married a prick.
Mom and stepdad drink together.
The whiskey flows through their veins
While they sing old songs
About suffering and death.
Father God
Looks down upon us.
His teeth are knives.
His heart is cold.
He kicks the poor,
And breaks the sick.
His feet stink,
So does his dick.
Fuck that big asshole up in the sky
Who wants us to love our father,
My dead dad’s replacement,
Who’s so generous with his fists.
Are you proud of what you’ve done?
William Gets Heart-Attacked
I’ve been vomiting blood for three hours.
I got heart-attacked! (Oh shit!)
Lorenzo bit his tongue to draw blood
So I would drink it, replacing mine.
It’s not every day that a triceratops saves a person.
I’d bleed to death without a tongue-blood transfusion.
I’m in a hospital bed.
Lorenzo is in the next bed over,
With a tube going down his throat.
He’s recovering from the shame
Of saving my life.
But it was all a dream (yeah, that makes more sense).
It was all a dream (that’s why it made no sense).
Damn it, I should have known!
Everything was bruise-blue,
And upside down.
Anyway, thank you, thanks for saving me in a dream, Lorenzo!
“No problem.”
What a fucked-up way to start the day…
Cancer and Virgins
Our souls are connected
To our bones and our flesh,
But to me Claire could only exist
On the surface.
Lorenzo is half metal
And half stone.
He’s like a newly launched gunship.
On the inside we’re alike:
Cancer and virgins.
But because he is a killer,
Lorenzo is a strange boy.
My sister has an iron fist,
And keeps screaming in envy.
We’re more the same than we are different.
I hate to touch a hand that’s metallic,
She hates to kiss a mouth that’s metal.
But deep down we’re the same:
We are born to murder.
The Hair on Her Arms
Claire, I love the way you cry,
And the tears that fill your eyes.
Every time you get close to me, I feel warm.
I dream about the hair on your arms.
You two are my best friends:
Lorenzo and Claire,
A triceratops and a blind girl.
My inspiration for most songs I write.
In these mountains, everything is cold.
What was left behind has turned to dust.
I find myself walking around town in the dark,
Just to know that I’m alive.
To Old America
Was there a time when you weren’t here, right by my side?
If there was, does it matter anymore?
Listen up close, boy
I’ve got something to say.
This boy can keep me up to date
And help me fix what’s wrong.
I’ll take him to old America.
He’ll show me the way.
This boy can keep me up to date.
His face speaks of new understanding,
And it’s my spirit that he surrounds.
I think I could live in his love.
C’mon, boy.
Right this way?
Supernova Snack
If I got hungry in the forest, Claire,
Would ya give me some of your blood?
If I fell in the river and got drenched,
Would ya lick me dry?
You’ve got an ass that could put out the flames
Of a raging forest fire.
(By which I mean your ass is very nice.)
Claire, you’re a fucking snack!
Everything you say makes me hard.
What should I do, girl?
Should I stick my nose in your arm, or what?
The only thing better than dying in battle
Is to get blown up by a meteor,
Or eaten by a carnosaur,
Then get fucked by you.
Claire, if you’re hungry,
Eat my eyes.
If you’re cold,
Light my bones on fire.
The stars will go out,
The planets break apart,
But for now, I’ll be feasting
On my supernova snack.
Marmalade Sun
A bird is building a nest in my mind.
Butterflies flutter around in my mouth.
There’s something living in my nose.
(You know those bioluminescent creatures that live in the black depths?
That’s what I have swimming in my guts.)
You and I, my ginger beam,
We were born from dinosaur blood
And that marmalade sun.
My head is round and rounder.
I don’t eat, I live on laughter.
No matter what, we’re going to die,
So we might as well enjoy the ride.
Friends We Never Knew
Are yours also cold on the inside?
Hmm-hmm.
Slimy, too.
It’s a miracle we’ve survived this far.
Millions of years ago,
We were myriad little cells,
Not even half-conscious of our lives.
Now here we are, talking about life and death,
Eating hot dogs we got out of a truck.
“Anton’s Hot Dogs” painted on the side.
We’ve survived it all:
Super volcanoes, ice ages.
But many others have not,
Friends we never knew.
What do I know?
At the end of the day,
I’m just a dumb teenager
With two friends to sing for,
And one to fuck.
Eyes Closed
I’ll never forget the first time we met,
‘Cause something in your eyes<
Made me want to try to touch your soul.
It’s such a shame how your eyes are always closed.
There’s a place that’s hidden deep inside your soul,
And if you knew the way to find it,
We could be lost in love forever.
When we find that, then we’ll find what’s within,
And everything that we’re searching for
Will come true like the stars in the sky
And the places on the ground.
And everything that we’re searching for
Will come true.
Lorenzo, No
Lorenzo, no.
I could tell you so many things,
But you’re never gonna hear them.
So go back to your cave
And think on life,
And you’ll find it’s so much better
Than what you think.
Go away, please.
Philosophy of the Beast
Don’t turn Lorenzo into a nihilist jerk
With all this depression shit.
Stop giving him philosophy books.
That’s not his calling.
He just wants to go on dates with chicks,
Eat their clits, and maybe dance a bit.
Lorenzo’s the kind of dinosaur
You can’t tie down.
Feed him, and he’ll bite your hand.
Give him a reason, and he’ll crush it.
Ohhhh-waaaahh-oh-waaahh-oh-waaaaaaa
Aaa-wa-waaah-aa-a-ahh-aaa
Ahh-ahh-a-wa-a-wah-waaaaa-wah
Aaa-oh-waaa-aa-aaa-waaa-aaa
That meat-grinder was born out of boredom,
And forced itself to evolve.
You won’t understand him,
‘Cause the ways of humans are insane!
No, that’s a bit unfair.
We’re all little monsters
Stuck on this rock hurtling through space,
Just trying to survive.
Monster With a Hellmouth
My friend doesn’t just have a hellmouth:
He also has a monster head
Made of chromium steel.
Whenever Lorenzo sings a song,
He sounds terrifying and murderous.
His hellmouth gushes dark smoke
While all sorts of horrors pour out.
(This does happen a lot.)
He’s a monster with a hellmouth;
I don’t know what to tell you.
Lorenzo ain’t afraid of ghosts or leprechauns.
If you run into him in a dark forest,
He’ll impale you on his horns,
And make a wish with your bones.
He’s also very well endowed:
It looks like a bazooka.
His seed comes out of his mouth
While his bazooka throbs.
(I’m not sure what nature intended
With that reproductive system.)
When I close my eyes, I still see it.
Hold in There, Lorenzo
Tumble through the cracks of this shithole town.
A boy and his fucking dinosaur.
You wear your horns like crowns
While I just wear my skin.
I see myself in you tonight, Lorenzo.
You’re out in the sun’s fucking bright light.
Drinking time (fuck yeah!).
You’re headed for the bottom.
You’re out there eating your dick.
You’re full of shit,
All fucked-up inside.
Your gonads hold the world in place.
You know we’re all going to die.
Triceratops dick.
Triceratops cock.
Triceratops dick.
Triceratops cock.
Fucking horned beast.
Helldick.
Don’t Wanna Be the One
Just look at how you’ve changed.
You don’t even look like yourself any more.
Clothes are hanging on you,
Your hair is a mess.
It looks like something’s wrong with you.
I don’t wanna be the one
To tell you the truth,
But I think that I should be the one
To tell you the truth.
I don’t like the way you’re acting.
Oh Lord, please help me.
So it’s true what they say.
I love you (I do), and I know you care for me.
Just tell me (tell me, bro) why you always treat me bad.
I can’t stand you any more,
And I really don’t think that it’s fair.
I don’t wanna be the one
To tell you the truth,
But I think that I should be the one
To tell you the truth.
Lorenzo.
Lorenzo.
My triceratops.
An ode,
A million of ’em,
To my triceratops.
The Same as It Is Now
Don’t shut the portal to hell.
Hey.
Don’t close the portal to hell.
Hey
Hey, you.
Did you listen?
Don’t be afraid of what I tell you,
Or you’ll end up down that well.
It will be dark and it will be cold,
And it will be you.
No! It’ll be the same as it is now,
Except with a lot of kids singing songs
About things that go boom.
Into Hell and Out Again
You, my friend, will disappear into hell,
So throw away your cigarettes,
Your scarlet lady and your tin box,
‘Cause you have a better life ahead.
It’s just the world we live in:
There’s no one to lead us.
The highway’s packed with assholes,
All of them worse than the last.
Forget the girls who betrayed you,
Every lie that brought you pain.
We should sit back and laugh,
For this life will go away.
You, my friend, will have to cross this stream,
Wading in the water with your arms wide open,
Feeling for each stone with your toes.
Throw away your scarlet lady,
And your cigarettes too.
This fucking world’s a garbage dump,
But not your heart, for that is home.
Afraid of His Dick
Dude, dude,
Try not fuck with him, ’cause he’s a goddamned
Mammoth triceratops
With a portal to hell inside his throat,
And a dick like a spear.
He won’t let you go, and he will follow you
All the way to the end of your life,
But in the meantime he won’t let you die,
‘Cause he knows a lot of stuff about science.
He wears a shell with a god inside.
I swear, he won’t let me die.
He wants to kiss my vagina,
But he hates the taste of petroleum.
When he bites me,
He comes off as murderous,
But I can never alert the authorities,
‘Cause I can’t read nor write,
And that’s just embarrassing.
Dude, can I tell you something?
If I were to kill him,
You could write about the slaughter,
And then we could kiss,
And drink some wine
And eat some tacos
And watch a movie.
We Can Fly
Claire is an angel. You’re the devil.
I’m the dude in-between.
We can fly like eagles,
We can sing like canaries,
But the blowing wind
Will never take us anywhere.
At least we’ve got our little hideaway
Where nobody’s gonna find us,
And we can let loose, do whatever we want.
You get high and go into these freaky rants,
Claire gives us those scary stories,
And I write songs about being dumb.
(Don’t tell me that ain’t the life.)
I had always liked coming here for reasons:
The smell of gasoline.
To be near things that are rusty and dying.
You can see the mountains in the distance.
They remind me of how small I really am.
I don’t wanna leave this town,
I’m too scared to even try.
Let’s stay here together
Until the end of time.
Cretaceous Razor
Somewhere at the end of the black and blue,
A yellow rose falls from the sky.
Lorenzo's throat is stuffed with joy and hope.
His heart is a lighthouse in the dark.
A hell of a way to live and love,
The difference between life and death,
To know the feeling of a dino's claws.
He'll shred you to the size of a cactus.
Some may find the signs of wisdom.
Lorenzo can't understand anything from them,
But his warm and kind stories
May make you love life more than death.
A Cretaceous razor cuts the sun.
He'll make your hat more than seven feet tall.
The curve of his horns turns me on.
He's an angel in the blackest of hells.
Girl With a Limp
Lorenzo’s a dinosaur with a triceratops brain.
If you know his liver, then you know his scrotum.
If you don’t know his liver, then you know his scrotum.
Those balls are hard to miss.
If you asked him where he got his good looks,
He’d say, “A vat of acid.”
If you asked him how to get his abs,
He’d say, “Stick a saw blade in your guts.”
If you asked him where he lives,
He’d say, “Under your bed.”
If you asked him how to find true love,
He’d say, “Open the gates of hell!”
If you asked Lorenzo where he was going,
He’d look at you like you had three heads.
If you told him where he was going,
He’d call you a liar.
Lorenzo would get drunk and fuck my girl.
He kicked her while having sex.
She’s a charming sixteen
Going on twenty-four.
Her eyes are milk,
And she walks with a limp.
No Entiendo
His name’s Lorenzo. I think it sounds like a brand.
I was just a kid when I first heard the wailing
That howls out from the depths of his throat.
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.
No entiendo!
Hey, no entiendo.
Yo no entiendo.
Lorenzo takes me by the arm.
“Se llama amor, pero no lo entenderías.”
He runs toward our school with a bomb
That blows up the town and my home.
Necesito una sombrilla.
Hoy es luna de sangre!
God Fucked Us and Made a Mixtape
My asshole is soaking wet.
There are bubbles coming out.
It feels as if God’s dick went through,
Hiroshima’d my rectum.
Let me shit the living truth!
Blubblubblub!
Blubblubbluburbursurslubluplbluplu, bruru!
Burursurbur!
Slllluurrrslllruuberba!
Arasaba rururu urusar suba ar su!
Dear God, the creator and destroyer,
Please allow me to introduce myself.
I’m a demon sent from the pits
That are located south of hell.
God, you’ve been fucking with us forever,
Making mixtapes and sharing them online.
Why are you still recording?
Do you want attention, or are you insane?
God’s up there rolling joints and listening to metal.
Once, an angel tried to take God’s headphones off.
I found that angel in pieces behind a seven-eleven.
Those poor wings will never fly again.
Oh, God! The things you’ve done to us!
You said, “My children, this is what I want you to do:
Blow your load on top of the highest mountain.”
We did, and the mountain was covered in cum.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, God fucked us,
And made a mixtape!
He said, “This is for you, children,
In case your forget how great I am.”
You can say that God fucked us and made a mixtape,
‘Cause he fucked us and made a mixtape,
Which is actually a huge collection of mixtapes,
All with the same cover and title,
Sitting on the floor of a van.
God will kill us all one day,
But first he’ll put us through hell.
Now that he’s set me on fire,
I will burn the world away.
Love Thy Tyrannosaurus
Tyrannosaurus Rex,
Tyrant lizard king.
He runs with his brothers and sisters
Through the thick jungle brush.
He was born under the shadow
Of a thousand lightning bolts.
Love thy tyrannosaurus,
But keep thy distance:
He will kill thee,
And eat thy guts.
He’s just a vicious dude
In a giant reptile suit,
And we’re one and the same.
Here it comes.
When the Fence is Gone
The actual lady, Claire,
Is in love with the beast.
She’s trapped in his throat,
Bound by a curse.
We’re the sheep that go out to pasture,
The livestock in a fenced field.
You’re the shepherd of a foolish flock,
Feeding on our blood and souls.
I wish I could pretend
That you never existed,
But now I will pretend
That I care for you.
The day will come
When the fence is gone,
And you will be the one
Left all alone.
Beast of the old ways.
Hell Is This Way
Oh Lorenzo, what can I say?
I never liked you when we were kids.
You have a face that’s a million years old.
The portal to hell has swung open.
I am Triceratops, and my wife is Spartacus.
Handsome or ugly, what does it matter?
My wife gives her life away for Triceratops.
Hell is this way.
Hell is this way.
Hell is this way, triceratops.
A world far below this one,
Where darkness never ends.
Your blood’s the best of wines.
Bitter Bites
And after all the lies he told,
The rocks he threw at me,
That dino got what he deserved.
I saw tears in his eyes.
He will never betray me again,
That bloody demon.
To satisfy a weird urge,
I cut up some of his flesh,
And ate it.
How sick is that.
The Devil Inside My Throat
I met this girl who wouldn’t give a fuck.
One day she led me to her bedroom.
Today I couldn’t look her in the eyes,
Even though she’s only ever seen black.
Her scent is a morning in early fall,
And her voice soft and pleasant,
Like a mother who wouldn’t abandon you,
Or a father who would never hurt you.
It’s all gone.
The devil lives inside my throat.
I hear his chortling every night.
Sometimes he burns my clothes.
He also pees on my bed.
Name’s Lorenzo. I’m a triceratops.
I have a portal inside my throat.
When I open it, smoke comes out
From the bowels of hell.
I see the darkness within me.
I’ve always known it was there.
You can download the album Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2 through this link. Below are the lyrics for all the songs it contains.
Plan for a Renegade
First things first, I wanna talk to you about
Things like war, motherhood, and fatherhood.
Anyway, there’s only a verse about my friend.
See, Lorenzo has a mission that his parents planned:
Gotta shoot a renegade deinonychus (he’s a chupacabra).
Hell’s Gate-a-ray, his parents are sending him down to hell.
“Okay, this is going to sound too crazy.
Hell’s Gate-a-ray, ole-yeter. (gibberish)”
Lorenzo asks, “What was that, Gramps?”
“Shut up, you son-of-a-gun. Next, I’m tellin’ you the truth,
We’re gonna build a missile out of your heart, ’cause, um,
You, uh, you ain’t, uh, been an angel, but, you know,
You’ll repent and, uh, uh, don’t let the devil tempt you, boy.
An old fart like me, I know.”
The Griffin Hum
Ladies and gents, whoever’s listening,
Please allow me to introduce William Griffin,
Writer, singer, guitarist, human jerk.
Why don’tcha say something, Griffin?
What? Say what?
Hum, hum, hum, hum,
Hum, hum, hum.
Whatcha hum,
Whatcha hum,
Huuh?
If I had to summarize William Griffin
In one meaningful deed, it would be…
Hold on, I think the chorus is coming.
Let me tell you about it later.
Oh, song’s over. Nevermind!
Strings and Gunpowder
Grab your guitar!
Grab your gun!
Grab your life
And have fun!
Wake up at night and sing a song
Under your friend’s bedroom window.
Hey, Lorenzo! Lorenzo!
Plan to sleep all night long?
(“Shut up, asshole!”)
Yeah! It’s good to be back!
It’s good to be back!
La-la-la-lee
La-la-la-way,
Yay-eh!
Put your fingers on the strings,
Put a bullet in the chamber.
Boom boom boom!
Bang bang bang!
Hit ’em right in the heart!
Prehistoric Punk
Lorenzo is one ugly son-of-a-bitch.
His eyeballs are poison green.
With those claws, scales, and horns,
He’s like the truest form of punk.
Lorenzo the triceratops
Carries a tiny soul inside his skull.
That goddamn freak walks around
Like he could topple city blocks.
He’s got the guts of a machine gun,
And a portal to hell inside his throat.
Sing something, Lorenzo!
Rawr, rawr, ra-rawr!
Grr, grr, gr-grawr!
Rooo, rooo, ra-ra-roo!
Rawr, RAWR, RAAAAWR!
Crap
This crap is mine, and I am proud.
I’m gonna keep on singing, singing, singing.
I’m gonna keep on singing my crappy song,
And nobody can stop me.
It’s my own little song
That I’ve made myself,
And I’ll sing it any day
If I’m not getting beat up.
I’m gonna keep on singing, singing, singing.
I’m gonna keep on singing my crappy song.
I will sing forever and ever and ever,
Or until the day I die.
Cruisin’ While Horny
My friend Lorenzo is a triceratops
With a portal to hell inside his throat.
He would drive around for hours on end,
Trying to find some chicks.
Where did you get that car?
I don’t even have one.
What the hell are you doing, Lorenzo?
What the hell are you doing, Lorenzo?
Every day he’s doing this.
Dude, I’m worried about him.
This whole thing is getting out of hand.
When I told Lorenzo I was scared for him,
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “My bad.”
Lorenzo 2.0
Lorenzo the triceratops from space,
Born and raised in a cave.
His parents named him “the Obliterator,”
For that’s what he does best,
But they called him “Lorenzo” for short.
He’s not your average triceratops:
He doesn’t eat plants.
He eats the souls of the dead.
Lorenzo: update version 2.0.
New features include:
More soul-eating capacity.
Greater evil force.
Dark matter bazooka.
Enhanced chupacabras.
Fixes include:
Fixed flaming diarrhea bug.
Dating’s not his strong suit, though.
When Lorenzo dated that allosaurus,
He lost his mind and had to leave.
A relationship doomed from the start.
Lorenzo’s not afraid of anything.
When he heard the allosaurus was after him,
He said, “Bring that bitch over here!
I’ll smash her skull with a crowbar!”
Father God
My mom’s the sweetest flower,
But she married a prick.
Mom and stepdad drink together.
The whiskey flows through their veins
While they sing old songs
About suffering and death.
Father God
Looks down upon us.
His teeth are knives.
His heart is cold.
He kicks the poor,
And breaks the sick.
His feet stink,
So does his dick.
Fuck that big asshole up in the sky
Who wants us to love our father,
My dead dad’s replacement,
Who’s so generous with his fists.
Are you proud of what you’ve done?
William Gets Heart-Attacked
I’ve been vomiting blood for three hours.
I got heart-attacked! (Oh shit!)
Lorenzo bit his tongue to draw blood
So I would drink it, replacing mine.
It’s not every day that a triceratops saves a person.
I’d bleed to death without a tongue-blood transfusion.
I’m in a hospital bed.
Lorenzo is in the next bed over,
With a tube going down his throat.
He’s recovering from the shame
Of saving my life.
But it was all a dream (yeah, that makes more sense).
It was all a dream (that’s why it made no sense).
Damn it, I should have known!
Everything was bruise-blue,
And upside down.
Anyway, thank you, thanks for saving me in a dream, Lorenzo!
“No problem.”
What a fucked-up way to start the day…
Cancer and Virgins
Our souls are connected
To our bones and our flesh,
But to me Claire could only exist
On the surface.
Lorenzo is half metal
And half stone.
He’s like a newly launched gunship.
On the inside we’re alike:
Cancer and virgins.
But because he is a killer,
Lorenzo is a strange boy.
My sister has an iron fist,
And keeps screaming in envy.
We’re more the same than we are different.
I hate to touch a hand that’s metallic,
She hates to kiss a mouth that’s metal.
But deep down we’re the same:
We are born to murder.
The Hair on Her Arms
Claire, I love the way you cry,
And the tears that fill your eyes.
Every time you get close to me, I feel warm.
I dream about the hair on your arms.
You two are my best friends:
Lorenzo and Claire,
A triceratops and a blind girl.
My inspiration for most songs I write.
In these mountains, everything is cold.
What was left behind has turned to dust.
I find myself walking around town in the dark,
Just to know that I’m alive.
To Old America
Was there a time when you weren’t here, right by my side?
If there was, does it matter anymore?
Listen up close, boy
I’ve got something to say.
This boy can keep me up to date
And help me fix what’s wrong.
I’ll take him to old America.
He’ll show me the way.
This boy can keep me up to date.
His face speaks of new understanding,
And it’s my spirit that he surrounds.
I think I could live in his love.
C’mon, boy.
Right this way?
Supernova Snack
If I got hungry in the forest, Claire,
Would ya give me some of your blood?
If I fell in the river and got drenched,
Would ya lick me dry?
You’ve got an ass that could put out the flames
Of a raging forest fire.
(By which I mean your ass is very nice.)
Claire, you’re a fucking snack!
Everything you say makes me hard.
What should I do, girl?
Should I stick my nose in your arm, or what?
The only thing better than dying in battle
Is to get blown up by a meteor,
Or eaten by a carnosaur,
Then get fucked by you.
Claire, if you’re hungry,
Eat my eyes.
If you’re cold,
Light my bones on fire.
The stars will go out,
The planets break apart,
But for now, I’ll be feasting
On my supernova snack.
Marmalade Sun
A bird is building a nest in my mind.
Butterflies flutter around in my mouth.
There’s something living in my nose.
(You know those bioluminescent creatures that live in the black depths?
That’s what I have swimming in my guts.)
You and I, my ginger beam,
We were born from dinosaur blood
And that marmalade sun.
My head is round and rounder.
I don’t eat, I live on laughter.
No matter what, we’re going to die,
So we might as well enjoy the ride.
Friends We Never Knew
Are yours also cold on the inside?
Hmm-hmm.
Slimy, too.
It’s a miracle we’ve survived this far.
Millions of years ago,
We were myriad little cells,
Not even half-conscious of our lives.
Now here we are, talking about life and death,
Eating hot dogs we got out of a truck.
“Anton’s Hot Dogs” painted on the side.
We’ve survived it all:
Super volcanoes, ice ages.
But many others have not,
Friends we never knew.
What do I know?
At the end of the day,
I’m just a dumb teenager
With two friends to sing for,
And one to fuck.
Eyes Closed
I’ll never forget the first time we met,
‘Cause something in your eyes<
Made me want to try to touch your soul.
It’s such a shame how your eyes are always closed.
There’s a place that’s hidden deep inside your soul,
And if you knew the way to find it,
We could be lost in love forever.
When we find that, then we’ll find what’s within,
And everything that we’re searching for
Will come true like the stars in the sky
And the places on the ground.
And everything that we’re searching for
Will come true.
Lorenzo, No
Lorenzo, no.
I could tell you so many things,
But you’re never gonna hear them.
So go back to your cave
And think on life,
And you’ll find it’s so much better
Than what you think.
Go away, please.
Philosophy of the Beast
Don’t turn Lorenzo into a nihilist jerk
With all this depression shit.
Stop giving him philosophy books.
That’s not his calling.
He just wants to go on dates with chicks,
Eat their clits, and maybe dance a bit.
Lorenzo’s the kind of dinosaur
You can’t tie down.
Feed him, and he’ll bite your hand.
Give him a reason, and he’ll crush it.
Ohhhh-waaaahh-oh-waaahh-oh-waaaaaaa
Aaa-wa-waaah-aa-a-ahh-aaa
Ahh-ahh-a-wa-a-wah-waaaaa-wah
Aaa-oh-waaa-aa-aaa-waaa-aaa
That meat-grinder was born out of boredom,
And forced itself to evolve.
You won’t understand him,
‘Cause the ways of humans are insane!
No, that’s a bit unfair.
We’re all little monsters
Stuck on this rock hurtling through space,
Just trying to survive.
Monster With a Hellmouth
My friend doesn’t just have a hellmouth:
He also has a monster head
Made of chromium steel.
Whenever Lorenzo sings a song,
He sounds terrifying and murderous.
His hellmouth gushes dark smoke
While all sorts of horrors pour out.
(This does happen a lot.)
He’s a monster with a hellmouth;
I don’t know what to tell you.
Lorenzo ain’t afraid of ghosts or leprechauns.
If you run into him in a dark forest,
He’ll impale you on his horns,
And make a wish with your bones.
He’s also very well endowed:
It looks like a bazooka.
His seed comes out of his mouth
While his bazooka throbs.
(I’m not sure what nature intended
With that reproductive system.)
When I close my eyes, I still see it.
Hold in There, Lorenzo
Tumble through the cracks of this shithole town.
A boy and his fucking dinosaur.
You wear your horns like crowns
While I just wear my skin.
I see myself in you tonight, Lorenzo.
You’re out in the sun’s fucking bright light.
Drinking time (fuck yeah!).
You’re headed for the bottom.
You’re out there eating your dick.
You’re full of shit,
All fucked-up inside.
Your gonads hold the world in place.
You know we’re all going to die.
Triceratops dick.
Triceratops cock.
Triceratops dick.
Triceratops cock.
Fucking horned beast.
Helldick.
Don’t Wanna Be the One
Just look at how you’ve changed.
You don’t even look like yourself any more.
Clothes are hanging on you,
Your hair is a mess.
It looks like something’s wrong with you.
I don’t wanna be the one
To tell you the truth,
But I think that I should be the one
To tell you the truth.
I don’t like the way you’re acting.
Oh Lord, please help me.
So it’s true what they say.
I love you (I do), and I know you care for me.
Just tell me (tell me, bro) why you always treat me bad.
I can’t stand you any more,
And I really don’t think that it’s fair.
I don’t wanna be the one
To tell you the truth,
But I think that I should be the one
To tell you the truth.
Lorenzo.
Lorenzo.
My triceratops.
An ode,
A million of ’em,
To my triceratops.
The Same as It Is Now
Don’t shut the portal to hell.
Hey.
Don’t close the portal to hell.
Hey
Hey, you.
Did you listen?
Don’t be afraid of what I tell you,
Or you’ll end up down that well.
It will be dark and it will be cold,
And it will be you.
No! It’ll be the same as it is now,
Except with a lot of kids singing songs
About things that go boom.
Into Hell and Out Again
You, my friend, will disappear into hell,
So throw away your cigarettes,
Your scarlet lady and your tin box,
‘Cause you have a better life ahead.
It’s just the world we live in:
There’s no one to lead us.
The highway’s packed with assholes,
All of them worse than the last.
Forget the girls who betrayed you,
Every lie that brought you pain.
We should sit back and laugh,
For this life will go away.
You, my friend, will have to cross this stream,
Wading in the water with your arms wide open,
Feeling for each stone with your toes.
Throw away your scarlet lady,
And your cigarettes too.
This fucking world’s a garbage dump,
But not your heart, for that is home.
Afraid of His Dick
Dude, dude,
Try not fuck with him, ’cause he’s a goddamned
Mammoth triceratops
With a portal to hell inside his throat,
And a dick like a spear.
He won’t let you go, and he will follow you
All the way to the end of your life,
But in the meantime he won’t let you die,
‘Cause he knows a lot of stuff about science.
He wears a shell with a god inside.
I swear, he won’t let me die.
He wants to kiss my vagina,
But he hates the taste of petroleum.
When he bites me,
He comes off as murderous,
But I can never alert the authorities,
‘Cause I can’t read nor write,
And that’s just embarrassing.
Dude, can I tell you something?
If I were to kill him,
You could write about the slaughter,
And then we could kiss,
And drink some wine
And eat some tacos
And watch a movie.
We Can Fly
Claire is an angel. You’re the devil.
I’m the dude in-between.
We can fly like eagles,
We can sing like canaries,
But the blowing wind
Will never take us anywhere.
At least we’ve got our little hideaway
Where nobody’s gonna find us,
And we can let loose, do whatever we want.
You get high and go into these freaky rants,
Claire gives us those scary stories,
And I write songs about being dumb.
(Don’t tell me that ain’t the life.)
I had always liked coming here for reasons:
The smell of gasoline.
To be near things that are rusty and dying.
You can see the mountains in the distance.
They remind me of how small I really am.
I don’t wanna leave this town,
I’m too scared to even try.
Let’s stay here together
Until the end of time.
Cretaceous Razor
Somewhere at the end of the black and blue,
A yellow rose falls from the sky.
Lorenzo's throat is stuffed with joy and hope.
His heart is a lighthouse in the dark.
A hell of a way to live and love,
The difference between life and death,
To know the feeling of a dino's claws.
He'll shred you to the size of a cactus.
Some may find the signs of wisdom.
Lorenzo can't understand anything from them,
But his warm and kind stories
May make you love life more than death.
A Cretaceous razor cuts the sun.
He'll make your hat more than seven feet tall.
The curve of his horns turns me on.
He's an angel in the blackest of hells.
Girl With a Limp
Lorenzo’s a dinosaur with a triceratops brain.
If you know his liver, then you know his scrotum.
If you don’t know his liver, then you know his scrotum.
Those balls are hard to miss.
If you asked him where he got his good looks,
He’d say, “A vat of acid.”
If you asked him how to get his abs,
He’d say, “Stick a saw blade in your guts.”
If you asked him where he lives,
He’d say, “Under your bed.”
If you asked him how to find true love,
He’d say, “Open the gates of hell!”
If you asked Lorenzo where he was going,
He’d look at you like you had three heads.
If you told him where he was going,
He’d call you a liar.
Lorenzo would get drunk and fuck my girl.
He kicked her while having sex.
She’s a charming sixteen
Going on twenty-four.
Her eyes are milk,
And she walks with a limp.
No Entiendo
His name’s Lorenzo. I think it sounds like a brand.
I was just a kid when I first heard the wailing
That howls out from the depths of his throat.
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.
Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.
No entiendo!
Hey, no entiendo.
Yo no entiendo.
Lorenzo takes me by the arm.
“Se llama amor, pero no lo entenderías.”
He runs toward our school with a bomb
That blows up the town and my home.
Necesito una sombrilla.
Hoy es luna de sangre!
God Fucked Us and Made a Mixtape
My asshole is soaking wet.
There are bubbles coming out.
It feels as if God’s dick went through,
Hiroshima’d my rectum.
Let me shit the living truth!
Blubblubblub!
Blubblubbluburbursurslubluplbluplu, bruru!
Burursurbur!
Slllluurrrslllruuberba!
Arasaba rururu urusar suba ar su!
Dear God, the creator and destroyer,
Please allow me to introduce myself.
I’m a demon sent from the pits
That are located south of hell.
God, you’ve been fucking with us forever,
Making mixtapes and sharing them online.
Why are you still recording?
Do you want attention, or are you insane?
God’s up there rolling joints and listening to metal.
Once, an angel tried to take God’s headphones off.
I found that angel in pieces behind a seven-eleven.
Those poor wings will never fly again.
Oh, God! The things you’ve done to us!
You said, “My children, this is what I want you to do:
Blow your load on top of the highest mountain.”
We did, and the mountain was covered in cum.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, God fucked us,
And made a mixtape!
He said, “This is for you, children,
In case your forget how great I am.”
You can say that God fucked us and made a mixtape,
‘Cause he fucked us and made a mixtape,
Which is actually a huge collection of mixtapes,
All with the same cover and title,
Sitting on the floor of a van.
God will kill us all one day,
But first he’ll put us through hell.
Now that he’s set me on fire,
I will burn the world away.
Love Thy Tyrannosaurus
Tyrannosaurus Rex,
Tyrant lizard king.
He runs with his brothers and sisters
Through the thick jungle brush.
He was born under the shadow
Of a thousand lightning bolts.
Love thy tyrannosaurus,
But keep thy distance:
He will kill thee,
And eat thy guts.
He’s just a vicious dude
In a giant reptile suit,
And we’re one and the same.
Here it comes.
When the Fence is Gone
The actual lady, Claire,
Is in love with the beast.
She’s trapped in his throat,
Bound by a curse.
We’re the sheep that go out to pasture,
The livestock in a fenced field.
You’re the shepherd of a foolish flock,
Feeding on our blood and souls.
I wish I could pretend
That you never existed,
But now I will pretend
That I care for you.
The day will come
When the fence is gone,
And you will be the one
Left all alone.
Beast of the old ways.
Hell Is This Way
Oh Lorenzo, what can I say?
I never liked you when we were kids.
You have a face that’s a million years old.
The portal to hell has swung open.
I am Triceratops, and my wife is Spartacus.
Handsome or ugly, what does it matter?
My wife gives her life away for Triceratops.
Hell is this way.
Hell is this way.
Hell is this way, triceratops.
A world far below this one,
Where darkness never ends.
Your blood’s the best of wines.
Bitter Bites
And after all the lies he told,
The rocks he threw at me,
That dino got what he deserved.
I saw tears in his eyes.
He will never betray me again,
That bloody demon.
To satisfy a weird urge,
I cut up some of his flesh,
And ate it.
How sick is that.
The Devil Inside My Throat
I met this girl who wouldn’t give a fuck.
One day she led me to her bedroom.
Today I couldn’t look her in the eyes,
Even though she’s only ever seen black.
Her scent is a morning in early fall,
And her voice soft and pleasant,
Like a mother who wouldn’t abandon you,
Or a father who would never hurt you.
It’s all gone.
The devil lives inside my throat.
I hear his chortling every night.
Sometimes he burns my clothes.
He also pees on my bed.
Name’s Lorenzo. I’m a triceratops.
I have a portal inside my throat.
When I open it, smoke comes out
From the bowels of hell.
I see the darkness within me.
I’ve always known it was there.
Release of album Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 2
Back in 2021, during a blessed period of unemployment, I wrote the strange tale of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his love interest slash next-door neighbor Claire Javernick, and their pal Lorenzo, who is inexplicably a sentient triceratops. They spent their growing years in a nowhere-town that William can’t imagine ever leaving. Through this project of producing the songs contained in that story by exploiting the revolutionary AI service Udio, I had to rewrite plenty of songs or even ditch them altogether, but I felt that at the core was a poignant tale of a passionate if misguided young man too raw for this broken world.
In this volume of the four that will contain his story, the trio have left behind their tween years, and are now full-blown hormonal teenagers. Expect rage, rebellion, sexual urges, weird cravings, and a twist toward the end that will constitute the turning point of William’s story.
A 34-song, two hours-long wild ride of an album, one of my favorite creations. I know some of you have downloaded individual songs belonging to this album before (it appears in the stats), but I urge you to download the whole thing anyway, because I’ve tinkered with the sound levels, and fixed minor other stuff.
[follow this link to download the album and listen to three of the included songs]
In this volume of the four that will contain his story, the trio have left behind their tween years, and are now full-blown hormonal teenagers. Expect rage, rebellion, sexual urges, weird cravings, and a twist toward the end that will constitute the turning point of William’s story.
A 34-song, two hours-long wild ride of an album, one of my favorite creations. I know some of you have downloaded individual songs belonging to this album before (it appears in the stats), but I urge you to download the whole thing anyway, because I’ve tinkered with the sound levels, and fixed minor other stuff.
[follow this link to download the album and listen to three of the included songs]
May 28, 2024
Life update (05/28/2024)
[check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
I’ve been quite busy this month. Regarding the responsibilities that add money to my bank account, I’m heading a project to replace hundreds of printers in the hospital complex where I work, and that’s on top of my usual tasks as a computer technician. For the first time in my life, I’m in charge of two subordinates. Of course, I don’t want to be involved with any of it, but I haven’t managed to land a better job. Anyway, I like the printer technicians just fine. Most interesting detail for me: the last name of one of them is Lorenzo; one of those coincidences that have happened often with my creative projects. If the name Lorenzo doesn’t mean anything to you, you must not have been listening to my songs. I’ve used and listened to that name an unhealthy amount of times ever since I started producing songs with Udio.
In my spare time, I’m either working on my ongoing novella Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, that unfortunately very few people seem to like, or else producing songs thanks to the aforementioned revolutionary AI service Udio. I’ve loved creating songs through it from the very first beta, that offered you 33 seconds-long chunks of music that you had to either accept or discard; I recall the frustration of loving a part of a segment, only to want to curse at the AI because it blurted out gibberish at some part of it. However, ever since they included the ability to trim and inpaint, I’ve worked with my characteristic obsessiveness at every damn detail of them to ensure that the songs end up 99% like I wanted them. You should see the list of functional tags I’ve collected, including myriad genres and subgenres I didn’t even know existed. I’ve done more research into music this month that I’ve done about any subject in recent memory, even for my stories. I’ve wanted to create songs ever since I was a child, but I only know how to play the guitar. I also dislike dealing with human beings, so involving actual musicians in my musical endeavors was out of the question. AI is a godsend in that regard, and it seems that people are enjoying plenty of my songs as well.
I’m one of those people that can barely spend an hour at work without thinking, “I could be working on my stories or songs, which provide meaning not only for me but for others, but instead I’m wasting my limited lifespan trying to fix computer issues and dealing with annoying users.” It’s such a shame that the stuff I was born to do can’t be monetized (I have the completely wrong background and opinions for any publisher to accept my stuff these days, even if they found my stories palatable to begin with). I also hate networking, as part of my general aversion to humans, so my blog has barely grown in years. It always baffles me when I notice WordPress blogs that post less than me, and usually far less let’s say elaborate material, only for them to have thousands, or even tens of thousands of followers. What gives?
Being busy also distracts me from how horrid the world is. Wars aside, Europe is going down the toilet, the people who could do something significant about it either get fined, jailed, and/or shot, and we’re heading for Plandemic 2.0: Bird Flu Edition, no doubt as manufactured through gain-of-function research as the other one was. That’s what happens when you don’t hang people responsible for killing millions, they’re bound to try it again.
I wrote a whole paragraph about this insanity, but I deleted it, because ultimately who the fuck cares about what I have to say about it. I’m at work right now, handling three things at once, and I should focus on that stuff. Bye until whenever.
I’ve been quite busy this month. Regarding the responsibilities that add money to my bank account, I’m heading a project to replace hundreds of printers in the hospital complex where I work, and that’s on top of my usual tasks as a computer technician. For the first time in my life, I’m in charge of two subordinates. Of course, I don’t want to be involved with any of it, but I haven’t managed to land a better job. Anyway, I like the printer technicians just fine. Most interesting detail for me: the last name of one of them is Lorenzo; one of those coincidences that have happened often with my creative projects. If the name Lorenzo doesn’t mean anything to you, you must not have been listening to my songs. I’ve used and listened to that name an unhealthy amount of times ever since I started producing songs with Udio.
In my spare time, I’m either working on my ongoing novella Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, that unfortunately very few people seem to like, or else producing songs thanks to the aforementioned revolutionary AI service Udio. I’ve loved creating songs through it from the very first beta, that offered you 33 seconds-long chunks of music that you had to either accept or discard; I recall the frustration of loving a part of a segment, only to want to curse at the AI because it blurted out gibberish at some part of it. However, ever since they included the ability to trim and inpaint, I’ve worked with my characteristic obsessiveness at every damn detail of them to ensure that the songs end up 99% like I wanted them. You should see the list of functional tags I’ve collected, including myriad genres and subgenres I didn’t even know existed. I’ve done more research into music this month that I’ve done about any subject in recent memory, even for my stories. I’ve wanted to create songs ever since I was a child, but I only know how to play the guitar. I also dislike dealing with human beings, so involving actual musicians in my musical endeavors was out of the question. AI is a godsend in that regard, and it seems that people are enjoying plenty of my songs as well.
I’m one of those people that can barely spend an hour at work without thinking, “I could be working on my stories or songs, which provide meaning not only for me but for others, but instead I’m wasting my limited lifespan trying to fix computer issues and dealing with annoying users.” It’s such a shame that the stuff I was born to do can’t be monetized (I have the completely wrong background and opinions for any publisher to accept my stuff these days, even if they found my stories palatable to begin with). I also hate networking, as part of my general aversion to humans, so my blog has barely grown in years. It always baffles me when I notice WordPress blogs that post less than me, and usually far less let’s say elaborate material, only for them to have thousands, or even tens of thousands of followers. What gives?
Being busy also distracts me from how horrid the world is. Wars aside, Europe is going down the toilet, the people who could do something significant about it either get fined, jailed, and/or shot, and we’re heading for Plandemic 2.0: Bird Flu Edition, no doubt as manufactured through gain-of-function research as the other one was. That’s what happens when you don’t hang people responsible for killing millions, they’re bound to try it again.
I wrote a whole paragraph about this insanity, but I deleted it, because ultimately who the fuck cares about what I have to say about it. I’m at work right now, handling three things at once, and I should focus on that stuff. Bye until whenever.
May 25, 2024
Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 16 (Poetry)
Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
For days, I slipped in and out of lucidity.
I recall flashes of the waste collection center,
Of standing in the nearby landfills I had located,
Immersed in the stench of rotting organic matter.
I pleaded with employees wearing hard hats
And bright, reflective vests,
Begging them to let me access the collected trash.
I struggled to understand their replies;
My fogged mind registered their words as noise
Mingled with the caws of scavenging birds
And the sporadic rumble and beeps
Of lumbering trucks as they unloaded debris.
I wanted to collapse at the sight of endless trash:
Humanity unmasked as a blight upon nature.
I was tainted, a corrupting force spreading rot
To everything I needed to protect.
Workers denied my requests, citing policy,
But an employee in her fifties must have pitied me,
Because she allowed me to realize for myself
In the volume of compacted refuse
That my mementos of you no longer existed.
I dreamt you were calling me on a psychic link,
Begging me to find you
As a hill of trash slowly crushed you,
Suffocated you.
I heard your ribcage creaking, ready to collapse.
I dreamt of a colossal trash truck
Whose jagged teeth, like a predator's jaws,
Closed around your body, pulverizing you
In a deafening cacophony of screeching metal
And the dull pop of bones breaking.
As you struggled against the mechanical jaws,
Leaking tears, mucus, and blood,
Your wide, terrified eyes met mine.
I heard your anguished voice, accusing,
"You knew how this would end.
Why didn't you save me?"
On the couch where I slept, I awoke in a cold sweat,
Heart hammering, tears streaming down my face.
I thought I had survived the worst of my grief,
But it hadn't immunized me against its return.
I took a medical leave from work that nearly got me fired,
And I spent those days encased in lead.
Among my family, I roamed like a black, silent fire,
So unhinged that my wife didn't dare to chastise me.
At night, as my family slept, I stared into the darkness.
I listened to the whoosh of blood in my veins,
Life churning onward like the filthy waves
Of a sewer canal clogged with decaying memories.
Izar, two decades had passed since you died,
So why did your absence pulsate in my brain
Like the pain of a needle embedded deep?
Why did every hour still remind me
That you were no longer here to hold my hand?
I would never again talk with you,
Lean into you, breathe you in.
A crash against a guardrail had killed you,
The consequence of your choice to live dangerously.
I would never know if you'd have grown bored of me,
If our love would have faded or endured.
Once I clawed my way out of the black pit
And I recognized my wife as a human being again,
Every glance at her made me grimace.
I lived with a criminal that had escaped punishment
On account of our children's well-being,
And we interacted like snakes
Forced to share a cramped vivarium.
I yearned to listen to your voice damn near daily,
And when I thought of those treasured tapes
That had contained our mock radio shows,
I couldn't trust myself to stay in my wife's presence.
But the loss of those recordings, I could have prevented it;
I knew that magnetic tapes degrade,
That oxygen was eating away at our young voices.
Although I had planned to digitize them,
I had kept postponing the task,
Thinking there would be another day.
Whenever I could, for sanity's sake,
I escaped my home
And took long walks along the wooded lane
Where your memorial stone stands.
That narrow, mossy path ran parallel to the road,
Bordered by yellow-green grasses and leaves.
The sunlight streamed through skeletal branches
Stark against the background of rolling hills.
The breeze tickled my nose with the scents
Of moist soil, decaying vegetation, and pastures,
And the silence was interrupted only
By birdsong,
The breeze rustling leaves,
The bleating of grazing sheep,
And the sporadic whoosh of a passing vehicle.
In my mind, I spoke to you,
Recounting everyday moments from my kids' lives,
Seeking your opinion on how to parent them
So they wouldn't grow up bitter and miserable.
I had gone to check on our toddler,
And found my wife kneeling in the living room
In front of the coffee table and a cup,
As she wrote on a pocket notebook.
Beside her, our daughter babbled to a doll.
Standing still, I observed them
As if through an exhibit glass.
Our daughter approached the table
To mess around with the cup of coffee.
By the time my wife noticed,
The drink had already spilled.
"Look what you did!" she snapped.
Once our toddler returned her attention to the doll,
My wife hunched over, her shoulders shaking,
And she covered her face with both hands.
The thought of consoling her crossed my mind.
I should at least have taken our daughter away.
But I didn't want to deal with human beings,
With their demands and expectations I couldn't meet,
With their vindictiveness and their calculated cruelty.
Instead, I crept to the bathroom as quietly as possible,
Where I let the roar of water from the shower drown out
The world's meaningless noise.
During my solitary walks,
I replayed our pretend radio shows in my head,
Recalling our repartee as if it were song lyrics,
But with age and the limitations of my brain,
I encountered gaps in my memory
Where I questioned if I was inventing your lines.
I adopted the habit of sitting on a bench
Opposite a slope tangled with brambles
To transcribe the echoes of our teenage voices,
Haunted by the need to immortalize you
In this universe that insisted on erasing you.
Once I ran out of the words we had shared,
I wrote letters to you,
Elaborating on my impressions and pains.
From those days onward,
My notebooks became like dumpsters
In the grimy alleyway behind a busy restaurant,
Waiting to receive the daily effluvia of my mind.
We took the kids on a family outing
To a destination my wife had picked:
Mount Arburu.
The cool air carried the scent of pine trees.
I found myself staring at a view
That you and I had relished:
The rising, rounded peaks of Aiako Harria,
Rugged and patched with dense forest.
Gray clouds tended a titanic shadow
Over my sprawling hometown of Irún,
Extending to Hondarribia and the Txingudi Bay.
Two decades ago, I sat pillion on your Suzuki RM125,
My arms wrapped tightly around your waist,
The bike rumbling through my bones,
As you slalomed between the thorny shrubs
Scattered across this slope,
And flung joyful laughs to the wind.
Unhindered, nature cares little for two decades;
Here, only the unbreachable wall of time
Separated me from riding with you again.
I dreamt you and I held a funeral
For your wrecked Aprilia Red Rose.
We laid the mechanical beast to rest
Wrapped in bandages and duct tape,
On a bed of dead grass and dried leaves.
With our hands clutched in grief,
You wearing your motorcycle helmet,
We knelt and prayed before the bike,
Murmuring the kind of heartfelt goodbye
Reserved for lost loved ones.
At the front door of our apartment,
I was shrugging into my coat
When I felt a gaze on my face.
My wife, seated on the sofa, was leaning forward,
Wearing a loose blouse that exposed her breasts
To the hungry tug of gravity.
From the cigarette pinched between two fingers,
A thin ribbon of smoke swirled upward.
How many times had I envisioned confrontations
In which my wife's mouth would spill venom,
Recriminating every aspect of our marriage?
I imagined her calling me a selfish asshole,
And I shot back, labeling her a heartless psychopath
That had enjoyed destroying my mementos of you
While knowing how much they meant to me.
But my wife's gaze was tender,
Her eyebrows raised in the middle.
"The dead, they no longer love us,
And they certainly don't suffer.
They don't regret the lost opportunity
To spend more time together.
From what you shared about her,
She would have been horrified
By how much she ruined your life."
I fumbled for words to refute her,
But my throat had constricted.
My eyes welled up.
In a daze, I swung open the door
And hurried down the stairs.
---
Author's note: the songs for today are "Should Have Known Better" and "The Only Thing," both by Sufjan Stevens, and "Like a Stone" by Audioslave.
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
For days, I slipped in and out of lucidity.
I recall flashes of the waste collection center,
Of standing in the nearby landfills I had located,
Immersed in the stench of rotting organic matter.
I pleaded with employees wearing hard hats
And bright, reflective vests,
Begging them to let me access the collected trash.
I struggled to understand their replies;
My fogged mind registered their words as noise
Mingled with the caws of scavenging birds
And the sporadic rumble and beeps
Of lumbering trucks as they unloaded debris.
I wanted to collapse at the sight of endless trash:
Humanity unmasked as a blight upon nature.
I was tainted, a corrupting force spreading rot
To everything I needed to protect.
Workers denied my requests, citing policy,
But an employee in her fifties must have pitied me,
Because she allowed me to realize for myself
In the volume of compacted refuse
That my mementos of you no longer existed.
I dreamt you were calling me on a psychic link,
Begging me to find you
As a hill of trash slowly crushed you,
Suffocated you.
I heard your ribcage creaking, ready to collapse.
I dreamt of a colossal trash truck
Whose jagged teeth, like a predator's jaws,
Closed around your body, pulverizing you
In a deafening cacophony of screeching metal
And the dull pop of bones breaking.
As you struggled against the mechanical jaws,
Leaking tears, mucus, and blood,
Your wide, terrified eyes met mine.
I heard your anguished voice, accusing,
"You knew how this would end.
Why didn't you save me?"
On the couch where I slept, I awoke in a cold sweat,
Heart hammering, tears streaming down my face.
I thought I had survived the worst of my grief,
But it hadn't immunized me against its return.
I took a medical leave from work that nearly got me fired,
And I spent those days encased in lead.
Among my family, I roamed like a black, silent fire,
So unhinged that my wife didn't dare to chastise me.
At night, as my family slept, I stared into the darkness.
I listened to the whoosh of blood in my veins,
Life churning onward like the filthy waves
Of a sewer canal clogged with decaying memories.
Izar, two decades had passed since you died,
So why did your absence pulsate in my brain
Like the pain of a needle embedded deep?
Why did every hour still remind me
That you were no longer here to hold my hand?
I would never again talk with you,
Lean into you, breathe you in.
A crash against a guardrail had killed you,
The consequence of your choice to live dangerously.
I would never know if you'd have grown bored of me,
If our love would have faded or endured.
Once I clawed my way out of the black pit
And I recognized my wife as a human being again,
Every glance at her made me grimace.
I lived with a criminal that had escaped punishment
On account of our children's well-being,
And we interacted like snakes
Forced to share a cramped vivarium.
I yearned to listen to your voice damn near daily,
And when I thought of those treasured tapes
That had contained our mock radio shows,
I couldn't trust myself to stay in my wife's presence.
But the loss of those recordings, I could have prevented it;
I knew that magnetic tapes degrade,
That oxygen was eating away at our young voices.
Although I had planned to digitize them,
I had kept postponing the task,
Thinking there would be another day.
Whenever I could, for sanity's sake,
I escaped my home
And took long walks along the wooded lane
Where your memorial stone stands.
That narrow, mossy path ran parallel to the road,
Bordered by yellow-green grasses and leaves.
The sunlight streamed through skeletal branches
Stark against the background of rolling hills.
The breeze tickled my nose with the scents
Of moist soil, decaying vegetation, and pastures,
And the silence was interrupted only
By birdsong,
The breeze rustling leaves,
The bleating of grazing sheep,
And the sporadic whoosh of a passing vehicle.
In my mind, I spoke to you,
Recounting everyday moments from my kids' lives,
Seeking your opinion on how to parent them
So they wouldn't grow up bitter and miserable.
I had gone to check on our toddler,
And found my wife kneeling in the living room
In front of the coffee table and a cup,
As she wrote on a pocket notebook.
Beside her, our daughter babbled to a doll.
Standing still, I observed them
As if through an exhibit glass.
Our daughter approached the table
To mess around with the cup of coffee.
By the time my wife noticed,
The drink had already spilled.
"Look what you did!" she snapped.
Once our toddler returned her attention to the doll,
My wife hunched over, her shoulders shaking,
And she covered her face with both hands.
The thought of consoling her crossed my mind.
I should at least have taken our daughter away.
But I didn't want to deal with human beings,
With their demands and expectations I couldn't meet,
With their vindictiveness and their calculated cruelty.
Instead, I crept to the bathroom as quietly as possible,
Where I let the roar of water from the shower drown out
The world's meaningless noise.
During my solitary walks,
I replayed our pretend radio shows in my head,
Recalling our repartee as if it were song lyrics,
But with age and the limitations of my brain,
I encountered gaps in my memory
Where I questioned if I was inventing your lines.
I adopted the habit of sitting on a bench
Opposite a slope tangled with brambles
To transcribe the echoes of our teenage voices,
Haunted by the need to immortalize you
In this universe that insisted on erasing you.
Once I ran out of the words we had shared,
I wrote letters to you,
Elaborating on my impressions and pains.
From those days onward,
My notebooks became like dumpsters
In the grimy alleyway behind a busy restaurant,
Waiting to receive the daily effluvia of my mind.
We took the kids on a family outing
To a destination my wife had picked:
Mount Arburu.
The cool air carried the scent of pine trees.
I found myself staring at a view
That you and I had relished:
The rising, rounded peaks of Aiako Harria,
Rugged and patched with dense forest.
Gray clouds tended a titanic shadow
Over my sprawling hometown of Irún,
Extending to Hondarribia and the Txingudi Bay.
Two decades ago, I sat pillion on your Suzuki RM125,
My arms wrapped tightly around your waist,
The bike rumbling through my bones,
As you slalomed between the thorny shrubs
Scattered across this slope,
And flung joyful laughs to the wind.
Unhindered, nature cares little for two decades;
Here, only the unbreachable wall of time
Separated me from riding with you again.
I dreamt you and I held a funeral
For your wrecked Aprilia Red Rose.
We laid the mechanical beast to rest
Wrapped in bandages and duct tape,
On a bed of dead grass and dried leaves.
With our hands clutched in grief,
You wearing your motorcycle helmet,
We knelt and prayed before the bike,
Murmuring the kind of heartfelt goodbye
Reserved for lost loved ones.
At the front door of our apartment,
I was shrugging into my coat
When I felt a gaze on my face.
My wife, seated on the sofa, was leaning forward,
Wearing a loose blouse that exposed her breasts
To the hungry tug of gravity.
From the cigarette pinched between two fingers,
A thin ribbon of smoke swirled upward.
How many times had I envisioned confrontations
In which my wife's mouth would spill venom,
Recriminating every aspect of our marriage?
I imagined her calling me a selfish asshole,
And I shot back, labeling her a heartless psychopath
That had enjoyed destroying my mementos of you
While knowing how much they meant to me.
But my wife's gaze was tender,
Her eyebrows raised in the middle.
"The dead, they no longer love us,
And they certainly don't suffer.
They don't regret the lost opportunity
To spend more time together.
From what you shared about her,
She would have been horrified
By how much she ruined your life."
I fumbled for words to refute her,
But my throat had constricted.
My eyes welled up.
In a daze, I swung open the door
And hurried down the stairs.
---
Author's note: the songs for today are "Should Have Known Better" and "The Only Thing," both by Sufjan Stevens, and "Like a Stone" by Audioslave.
May 12, 2024
Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, Pt. 15 (Poetry)
Check out this part on my personal page, where it looks better
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
In the chiaroscuro of the ultrasound image,
The thick, dark uterine wall encircled life within:
An oval head attached to a bean-shaped torso.
The fetus rocked softly, suspended in space-time,
Untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
In the shadowed profile of its face,
Gentle rises hinted at the forming eyes,
A nose, a budding mouth.
Trailing from the head, a line of vertebrae
Resembled a delicate string of pearls.
Under the insistent thump-thumping
That pulsed through the amniotic fluid,
A certainty branded itself on my mind:
This is my daughter.
I hovered near the ceiling of a delivery room,
Watching like a detached stranger
My wife's sweat-sheened face,
Hair plastered to her clammy forehead,
Her chapped lips bared in a grimace.
From between the former lawyer's thighs,
A midwife coaxed out our bloody offspring,
The seed that had germinated
From a lump of cells into a human
Destined one day to venture beyond my reach.
I paced our postnatal room
While I supported my daughter's head.
A pink blanket swaddled her snugly.
Her skin, fresh off the factory,
Blazed with a rosy tint.
She smelled powdery and pure.
This baby resembled you, Izar:
She inherited your caramel-colored hair,
Your chocolate eyes, your carefree smile
That lightened the weight of the world.
Life still contained wondrous surprises.
In the master bedroom, while our baby slumbered,
I was drinking the sight of her flawless skin
When my aging brain craved the drug of pain.
I needed to stray out of this mundane refuge
Into the infinite darkness,
So I could resume speaking with the dead.
I slid the wardrobe door open,
Its rollers grinding against the track,
But the garments whose hems once draped
Over the moving box holding your remains
Now hung unimpeded.
I shifted aside T-shirts, shirts, and sweaters,
And found myself staring at an empty corner.
Could I have heaved the box out
Only to forget to put it back?
No, not once in all these years.
Frantically, I rummaged through the items
That could hide a moving box:
Unused bags, backpacks, travel suitcases.
I emptied the upper shelves,
Tossing aside old blankets and extra pillows.
I found my wife on the balcony,
Seated on a bistro-style chair,
Scrolling through her smartphone,
And taking a drag from her cigarette.
"Where is she?" I demanded to know.
Instead of chewing me out for my tone,
She kept her gaze glued to the screen.
The dying sun tinted her smoke blood-orange.
"Where's who?" she asked dryly.
"You know well what I mean."
"I don't."
My heartbeat rammed my ribcage.
"The box."
"Box, what box."
"The box containing what's left of Izar.
The box you kept complaining about,
Arguing that it took up too much space.
The box you clearly hated.
Where the fuck is it?"
After my wife confessed,
The Earth halted its spin.
The distorted echoes of her voice
Resonated through my mind's cavern:
"I dumped it all in the trash."
Panic burrowed into my brain and bones.
I rushed out of the apartment,
Down the stairs onto the street,
And straight to the array of recycling bins.
No traces of you among the discarded:
A worn-out stool, a broken microwave,
And disassembled furniture.
The stench of rotting organic waste mingled
With the scents of hot dust and cardboard,
And the bins' heavy lids clanked loud,
As I peered again and again into the gloom,
Desperatedly searching for a tape or a photograph.
"It's useless," my wife said.
She stood with her arms crossed,
But when our gazes met, hers flinched.
She spoke again, her voice wavering.
"I did it two days ago."
Sharp pangs struck my racing heart,
And spread along my veins and arteries.
I staggered away from the recycling bins
As I struggled to breathe.
My wife's caustic tone poured on my wounds.
"You're not bringing that girl back to life.
You should have gotten rid of her stuff years ago
And allowed yourself to move on,
But it seems you derive sick pleasure
From self-flagellation.
It's time to stop living in the past.
Focus on what truly matters, what's real:
Your wife, your son, and your baby daughter.
I won't stand by and watch you neglect us."
My last vestiges of you, my Izar,
Still carrying the scent of a fallen star:
Figurines, comic strips I drew for you,
Handwritten letters, your motorcycle gloves,
Photographs, cassette tapes with our shows,
A T-shirt stained dark with your blood,
Teeth, bone shards, scraps of flesh,
Your foot severed at the ankle.
I would never hear your laughter again.
A silent bomb had exploded inside me,
Hollowing out a vast space in my core.
My knees hit the grimy pavement.
I clawed at my scalp as spasms rocked me.
"You're gone," my mind repeated again and again,
An alarm blaring against the bruised gray matter
Of a broken brain.
I don't know how long it took
For me to hoist myself up,
Soaked through with cold sweat,
But now, a riot raged in my skull,
A cacophony of furious voices.
At the doorway of the nearby estate agent,
Next to its window flaunting dreams of elsewhere,
A young woman's brow furrowed with concern.
Other stares pierced the back of my head;
In front of the mechanic shop,
Beside a car with its hood raised,
Two grease-stained men gawked at me,
The stranger unraveling in public.
If I abandoned my wife like she deserved,
I wouldn't just break my son's heart,
But also rob my baby daughter of a father.
Tears traced paths down my wife's cheeks,
Leaving shimmering trails.
She controlled her outburst of genuine emotion
Behind the taut muscles of her face.
That glare alone was a silent rebuke
For managing to wring tears from her,
But I didn't give a shit;
Whatever goodwill I had accumulated
Over years of a weary coexistence
Had switched off in an instant.
I wished I had never met her.
Despite my wife's cracking voice,
Her words tore through the air like daggers.
"You've grieved for her longer than she even lived.
From the moment you first told me about that girl,
I knew I wasn't the one you truly loved,
But I stupidly hoped I would be enough.
After all, I'm the one who stuck around,
Who gave birth to your children.
No matter how hard I tried to make you happy,
Nothing ever pleased you.
It's always been about Izar, Izar, Izar,
That immature, reckless brat
With no care for the future,
Driven only by selfish whims.
You know it was the bitch's own fault,
Speeding through the rain.
If she hadn't gotten on that bike,
She'd still be alive,
Bumming off some poor sap,
And you'd have forgotten her by now."
My body had flash-cooled
As if dunked in a tank of liquid nitrogen.
I struggled to process my wife's words,
To believe she had uttered them.
I saw myself grabbing the abandoned stool,
And swinging it down on her forehead.
I pictured the shock in her eyes,
But before she could defend herself,
Before any onlooker could intervene,
Her skull would have cracked open,
Spraying splatters of blood and cerebral tissue.
Then I would have run, run, run away,
Fleeing from this rotten city to the nearest highway,
Where some truck wouldn't slow down in time.
But no remnant of you existed anymore
Except in the molecules of my brain.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Shine a Light" by Spiritualized.
You can read this novella from the beginning through this link.
---
In the chiaroscuro of the ultrasound image,
The thick, dark uterine wall encircled life within:
An oval head attached to a bean-shaped torso.
The fetus rocked softly, suspended in space-time,
Untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
In the shadowed profile of its face,
Gentle rises hinted at the forming eyes,
A nose, a budding mouth.
Trailing from the head, a line of vertebrae
Resembled a delicate string of pearls.
Under the insistent thump-thumping
That pulsed through the amniotic fluid,
A certainty branded itself on my mind:
This is my daughter.
I hovered near the ceiling of a delivery room,
Watching like a detached stranger
My wife's sweat-sheened face,
Hair plastered to her clammy forehead,
Her chapped lips bared in a grimace.
From between the former lawyer's thighs,
A midwife coaxed out our bloody offspring,
The seed that had germinated
From a lump of cells into a human
Destined one day to venture beyond my reach.
I paced our postnatal room
While I supported my daughter's head.
A pink blanket swaddled her snugly.
Her skin, fresh off the factory,
Blazed with a rosy tint.
She smelled powdery and pure.
This baby resembled you, Izar:
She inherited your caramel-colored hair,
Your chocolate eyes, your carefree smile
That lightened the weight of the world.
Life still contained wondrous surprises.
In the master bedroom, while our baby slumbered,
I was drinking the sight of her flawless skin
When my aging brain craved the drug of pain.
I needed to stray out of this mundane refuge
Into the infinite darkness,
So I could resume speaking with the dead.
I slid the wardrobe door open,
Its rollers grinding against the track,
But the garments whose hems once draped
Over the moving box holding your remains
Now hung unimpeded.
I shifted aside T-shirts, shirts, and sweaters,
And found myself staring at an empty corner.
Could I have heaved the box out
Only to forget to put it back?
No, not once in all these years.
Frantically, I rummaged through the items
That could hide a moving box:
Unused bags, backpacks, travel suitcases.
I emptied the upper shelves,
Tossing aside old blankets and extra pillows.
I found my wife on the balcony,
Seated on a bistro-style chair,
Scrolling through her smartphone,
And taking a drag from her cigarette.
"Where is she?" I demanded to know.
Instead of chewing me out for my tone,
She kept her gaze glued to the screen.
The dying sun tinted her smoke blood-orange.
"Where's who?" she asked dryly.
"You know well what I mean."
"I don't."
My heartbeat rammed my ribcage.
"The box."
"Box, what box."
"The box containing what's left of Izar.
The box you kept complaining about,
Arguing that it took up too much space.
The box you clearly hated.
Where the fuck is it?"
After my wife confessed,
The Earth halted its spin.
The distorted echoes of her voice
Resonated through my mind's cavern:
"I dumped it all in the trash."
Panic burrowed into my brain and bones.
I rushed out of the apartment,
Down the stairs onto the street,
And straight to the array of recycling bins.
No traces of you among the discarded:
A worn-out stool, a broken microwave,
And disassembled furniture.
The stench of rotting organic waste mingled
With the scents of hot dust and cardboard,
And the bins' heavy lids clanked loud,
As I peered again and again into the gloom,
Desperatedly searching for a tape or a photograph.
"It's useless," my wife said.
She stood with her arms crossed,
But when our gazes met, hers flinched.
She spoke again, her voice wavering.
"I did it two days ago."
Sharp pangs struck my racing heart,
And spread along my veins and arteries.
I staggered away from the recycling bins
As I struggled to breathe.
My wife's caustic tone poured on my wounds.
"You're not bringing that girl back to life.
You should have gotten rid of her stuff years ago
And allowed yourself to move on,
But it seems you derive sick pleasure
From self-flagellation.
It's time to stop living in the past.
Focus on what truly matters, what's real:
Your wife, your son, and your baby daughter.
I won't stand by and watch you neglect us."
My last vestiges of you, my Izar,
Still carrying the scent of a fallen star:
Figurines, comic strips I drew for you,
Handwritten letters, your motorcycle gloves,
Photographs, cassette tapes with our shows,
A T-shirt stained dark with your blood,
Teeth, bone shards, scraps of flesh,
Your foot severed at the ankle.
I would never hear your laughter again.
A silent bomb had exploded inside me,
Hollowing out a vast space in my core.
My knees hit the grimy pavement.
I clawed at my scalp as spasms rocked me.
"You're gone," my mind repeated again and again,
An alarm blaring against the bruised gray matter
Of a broken brain.
I don't know how long it took
For me to hoist myself up,
Soaked through with cold sweat,
But now, a riot raged in my skull,
A cacophony of furious voices.
At the doorway of the nearby estate agent,
Next to its window flaunting dreams of elsewhere,
A young woman's brow furrowed with concern.
Other stares pierced the back of my head;
In front of the mechanic shop,
Beside a car with its hood raised,
Two grease-stained men gawked at me,
The stranger unraveling in public.
If I abandoned my wife like she deserved,
I wouldn't just break my son's heart,
But also rob my baby daughter of a father.
Tears traced paths down my wife's cheeks,
Leaving shimmering trails.
She controlled her outburst of genuine emotion
Behind the taut muscles of her face.
That glare alone was a silent rebuke
For managing to wring tears from her,
But I didn't give a shit;
Whatever goodwill I had accumulated
Over years of a weary coexistence
Had switched off in an instant.
I wished I had never met her.
Despite my wife's cracking voice,
Her words tore through the air like daggers.
"You've grieved for her longer than she even lived.
From the moment you first told me about that girl,
I knew I wasn't the one you truly loved,
But I stupidly hoped I would be enough.
After all, I'm the one who stuck around,
Who gave birth to your children.
No matter how hard I tried to make you happy,
Nothing ever pleased you.
It's always been about Izar, Izar, Izar,
That immature, reckless brat
With no care for the future,
Driven only by selfish whims.
You know it was the bitch's own fault,
Speeding through the rain.
If she hadn't gotten on that bike,
She'd still be alive,
Bumming off some poor sap,
And you'd have forgotten her by now."
My body had flash-cooled
As if dunked in a tank of liquid nitrogen.
I struggled to process my wife's words,
To believe she had uttered them.
I saw myself grabbing the abandoned stool,
And swinging it down on her forehead.
I pictured the shock in her eyes,
But before she could defend herself,
Before any onlooker could intervene,
Her skull would have cracked open,
Spraying splatters of blood and cerebral tissue.
Then I would have run, run, run away,
Fleeing from this rotten city to the nearest highway,
Where some truck wouldn't slow down in time.
But no remnant of you existed anymore
Except in the molecules of my brain.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Shine a Light" by Spiritualized.
