Dissolving Bikini

http://www.spike.com/blog/how-to-make-girls/84496
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I wrote a song and a half today

I wrote a song and a half  today,and it's called
It's Time to Tape My Toes or the TTMT Song.
The song is sung in broadway style,with a dash of Frank Sinatra for class.
The chord progression is a basic 1 3 5.Feel free to choose your scale.

Any questions,feel free to ask
for asking is free
but answers are not

So lets begin with the song ,the song titled

 

 It's time to tape my toes

It's time to tape my toes    ... x2
I've been walking along
A long walk alone

and I'm hurtin'
and I'm bleedin'
for all my sad tomorrows
and all  bygone friends and foes
and my bloody chafin' toes

So...it's time to tape my toes coz
one can never know
how the wind blows
and take you and show
wherever the winds blow

I've been walkin along
a long walk alone

and I'm hurtin'
and I'm bleedin'
So it's time to tape my toes...(repeat and fade away)

p.s.
(If you want to make it country western  -replace the following  with the suggested ones below
my -mah,
toes -tows,
alone-alown,
and -'n ,
So-sow,
time-ty-eem,
tape-tay-p)

The other half song that I wrote was...
Partners
Sung in the tune of 'The Blue Danube'

Let's be partners in rhyme
and let's do our time
beneath the soft glow of moonshine

Let's be partners in rhyme
and dance all night along
beneath the sky,beside the ocean

This love of ours ,
long and eternal,
needs no magic potion

(to make it pop- increase BPM to 120, insert liberally and randomly the following
"Oh baby" ,"Yeah Baby","My Baby","baby girl" , "Your'e so fine" ,"smooth", "sweet" ,"mmm","silky","love","heart")

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Seasons of the Sun

I couldn't find a more cliched title for this.

Ha ha.

Ha

I think I should stick to camera phones and leave the heavy stuff to the pros...but I'am eyeing a Nikon D60...supposedly a good entry level DSLR AND at a reasonable price (Now available in India!)

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Daughters and Downpour.

Torrential rainfalls lashed across the decks,claps of thunder following close by with slivers of jagged electricity occasionally hurtling downwards from the heavens,in a silent scraggy path of temporal phosphoresecence.

                    Of course it is needless to say that watching the rains is playing the waiting game,and anyone who has played rhe waiting game never knows where it will lead him.It is most likely that within no time one will be lost in one of the hidden alleys down the memory lane.

"The rains have something in them...", He said, "like magic.
                                            
                            One rain,just one rain can do what years of automatic sprinklers and arificial fertilizers cannot do...One good rain and you see

that the earth has bloomed,fresh anew and teeming with life ,and all those plants -  all because of one rain"

                            I said,"I'd like to think so too.There is something magical.It's not just the water- -  it could not be...there's something more to it.Whenever it rains,somehow it seems that the plants are happy,sometimes even joyous in celebration"

He grew silent as we both watched the liquid inundation ,the celestial fireworks and the grey pallor cast by the moist saturated air that hung like thick curtains.I was concerned if I had said something wrong or offensive for him to retreat deeply inwards and be pensive.

                       "My daughter..." He trailed off, lost once again in the hidden alleys down the  memory lane,"My daughter is a very intuitive girl.What you said reminded me of her...always sensitive for age,even when a child" he said pointing at an empty space and then raising his downturned palm upto his waist showing an approximation of a three of four year old kid.

"It was raining once", he said again pointing at the imaginary child of three of four years old,"and she said Look daddy ! The plants are smiling!...there was beauty and simplicity in her statement , a rare thing for a child of that age to say",he said still pointing at empty space where he had temporarily conjured up a daughter full of metaphysical depth and flesh and blood made of ether.

"This other time she began crying because she couldn't stand the cutting down of trees in the city.
                      It was heartwrenching to see her sob and heave with the burden of the shared grief of the fallen trees.It was heartwrenching because all of a sudden I felt very inadequate as a parent and a protector, for I could not ease her pain nor soothe her.I was forced to watch her endure ...

Did you know she wrote poetry?"

And it continued to pour outside while inside I waited to be drenched in the memories of  unknown pasts and unseen lifetimes.

 "-and she reminds me of my eldest daughter." said the other.

                                                           We all assumed that it was his turn.I wasn't married,nor did I have any siblings,male or female.

Nor would they  want to listen to any stories of my mother or my aunts,the only women I knew.So I was naturally the odd man out who was the designated spectator of the ensuing catharsis.

 

And he always began with non-sequitirs that only he understood.

"She's a crazy one.One minute she's reading a book" he said pantomiming the action of reading a huge book, perhaps three feet from spine to the edge of the cover "and the next moment..." he paused and stuck his pinkie in my ear canal and said "she's doing this to irritate me.Or when the missus and I are sitting together and quietly reading ,she'll come out of nowhere and keep her head on my lap and her feet on the missus and take a fake nap.

              On the outside,she looks very studious,serious and level headed but she's always upto some monkey business or the other.She drives me mad sometimes,but that's the reason I keep missing her.Her antics - they always make it hard to forget"

                    "Hmmm..." we chorused and sighed.We all retreated into our caves.We were exposed and fragile.Our memories had made us vulnerable.We needed to be alone to recuperate.

              There were many downpours that night.The one on the outside had stopped,but the others on the inside raged on,with each man sighing at the plight of being reduced to ressurrect homunculi fleshed out from the essence of the hidden alleys down the memory lane and hoping for a better tomorrow when goodbyes were optional and poor substitutes from the hidden alleys down the memory lane were no longer required.

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James Bond never picks his nose in public

This is just the beginning.Comprende?
This is just the fuckin' beginning.
He had heard his boss say all the time.

It was just the beginning...his skin had turned reddish,his nostrils were clogged and his eyes teary all the time.

Lazily he dug deep.Deep assosiations being triggered off in his brain.
His pinky finger was buried down to it's first knuckle - gently probing and prodding...and then- Ah! Found it!

The last of the sunken treasure.

More twisting and probing and gentle manoeuvering of the pinkie finger yeilded a glob,small-grain sized but soft,pliant and resilient  piece of chewed up and spat beef jerky...The sunken treasure, the snot globule finally extricated from the depths of his right nostril shone a reddish rusty shine in the light.

 

This is just the beginning.Comprende?
This is just the fuckin'beginning.
                                   How long has it been?Only three days?In the coming days,weeks,months and years the colour will spread,the glint will spread and metastasize like a malignant tumour.At first your snot,then your spit, to a lesser extent of detection-your blood,and with time your shit, your pre-cum,your cum-your everything will be reddish rust and it will glint.That's what working in an iron ore refinery does to you.

His boss told him that as a part of his induction briefing.

 

Iron Disulphide.Iron Pyrite.Fool's Gold.

                            Shiny little glittering bastards ,almost impossible to remove once they get on the body or a piece of clothing.His teachers used to catch him in the act of picking his nose and say"What are you trying to do...trying to find gold?".

The snot globule sparkled.

Real gold did not sparkle.Real gold did not dazzle.Real gold did not impress.
Real gold only shone a dull yellow shine.
                                         On the wrong person,real gold looked cheap.On the wrong person, real gold looked vulgar.But on some unlucky sods, it looked both cheap and vulgar, and on some really unlucky bastards it also looked tacky.If it wasn't for real golds rarity,Fool's gold would have won hands down.Such was the irony in life.Rarity took precedence over common beauty.

 

               While his pinkie finger was deep inside of him his neurons fired at a rapid rate and made millions of odd connections per second and retrieved and recreated a part of his memories and associations that lay dormant until then.A scientist won the Ignoble Award for a doctoral dissertation on the prevalence of nose picking amongst Teenagers.It had a highly technical name that he had almost immediately forgotten.The thesis stated that nose picking was commonly indulged as a stress reduction mechanism by teenagers,but it also induced guilt due to deep social and parental conditioning.

Guilt and relaxation went hand in hand with nose picking, just as in many other forms of cheap thrills and other amusements.

He could only vaguely remember that the scientist had an Indian name and had actually shown up to accept the Ignoble Award.

 

               His habit had some unexpected consequences though.A consumate nose picker,he usually  used his pinkie, but at stressful moments he resorted to his thumb - driving it up so that it made contact with the bone and not just cartilage.He never inserted anything else up his nostrils.As a child, he had heard the story of  a kid who died when the pencil shoved up his nostril went through the skull spilling gooey grey matter all over.This scared him straight enough not to experiment with foreign insertions.In his recurring nightmares,the grey matter had a gummy  liquid like quality resembling dripping mercury chewing gum toothpaste.In his dreams it was his brain that was speared with a freshly sharpened 2B pencil that he so much liked to use while drawing his gun battles and dinosaur-monsters.As his brains spilled out, or rather oozed out - unable to comprehend or formulate the next step he would hold the dripping grey matter between his fingers and pull on it and his grey matter - now a silver glob would simply stretch and get entangled with his fingers and he would try to shake it off until violently being jarred awake.To calm himself he would resort to thumb-picking his nose,which gave his nostrils a widened stretched look and at certain angles and certain lighting conditions,especially when the diffused light of the setting sun caught his front profile or his mug shot,he resembled  an angry gorilla with flared nostrils.

Monkeyshine.
That's what the other kids used to call him at school.
Also George of the Jungle not realizing that in that movie ,the talking gorrilla was named Ape.

 

              More wheels clicked and whirred inside his head and many more neurons were busy firing up inside his brain(two very different places) and he was taken to a different place , a different time-to  a memory in which he was cold,wet and stark naked.His mom was giving him a bath.No that wasn't right.He never allowed anyone to see him naked since he was five years old.Then this must've been when he was before he was five years old,after which he was too shy and self conscious to be comfortable in his own skin around others.

                                     So when his mom was giving him a bath,maybe when he was four or possibly three but not five or two,because he had no memories of being two or any younger because of the 'Falling off the swing in 1986' incident, she talked about etiquette.The ages before five are the formative years where the brains learning capacity is supposedly ten thousand times greater than that of an average adults.Why was there such a drastic reduction in the learning capacity of an average adult?The adult simply grew up and abandoned the age of wonder and intrigue.Nothing seemed new anymore.Titanium alloy disc brakes were applied hard to the accelration of brain and then abandoned at the sidewalk.

 

                        His mother might have learnt this technique from Spock,the definitive guide for child rearing which she turned a blind eye to when it advised her to let her kids sleep in their own bedrooms right from childhood so that they got acclimatised to it.He slept with his parents until he was twelve and found out that he was the only one amongst his friends to do so.He refused to sleep with his parents after that ,and consequently broke his mom's heart.

 

Spock spoke about identifying role models and inculcating wholesome values by attributing these values to those rolemodels.

 

                        Popeye was his favourite cartoon character and rolemodel.He didn't really know why.He could have chosen Superman,Spiderman,Porky Pig,Donald Duck,but instead he chose a bald one eyed sailor with disproportionate limbs,a smoking addiction and a speech impediment.His choice of girls was no great feat to be emulated either.

His mom told him that if he wanted to be big and strong like popeye (his violent streak was not discussed back then) ,then he must eat spinach.
And other veggies.

Fine.

He had no problems with that.Unlike other kids ,he loved his veggies.He heaped veggies on his plate-raw,cooked,peeled,skinned,blanched,cored,sliced,diced,cubed,sauteed,skewered,barbequed,baked, tinned,pickled and other.

 

                                   He used to get cranky if he didn't get his daily quota of veggies,and this was a special requirement like lactose intolerance or peanut allergy that had to be told in advance if his family were to visit their friends or relatives for dinner.

"Give the kid his fuckin' veggies...and don't forget the fruits.All that roughage he eats can bring about world peace"

He was the model kid,made and example and praises showered upon in front of other kids with veggie induced loss of appetite so that they could follow suit.

Not that it ever worked.

Monkeyshine,George of the Jungle was simply not cool enough to shepherd the sheep.

But in retrospect,James Bond was a mistake for a four year old or a three year old.

 

                                       After a brief and embarrassing instruction on how to pull on the foreskin and clean the white fishy  gunk (his mom said it was called smegma) and clean his penis (his mom always insisted on the proper terminology,not wee wee,pee pee,dick,boner or prick) and how to sprinkle cold water on the scrotum (not balls...never balls),gleaned from a book called The Housewive's Almanac,she proceeded to give him the basics of etiquette - atleast the basics that applied to a four or three year old.

She said " James Bond never picks his nose in the public,nor does he scratch his crotch.What he does is after his bath he cleans his nose and his penis and then carefully washes his hands"

He remembered James Bond.Pussy Galore made his spine tingle.Octupussy fantasies threw him into a fit of frenzy.

 

                                  He asked his mother,years later , as to why she chose James Bond - a cold blooded  limey womanizer with scant respect for other peoples lives.

He was never his rolemodel,but his dad was a great fan of Bond, crazy enough to splurge family savings on the collectors set.

 

His mom sat there stunned and silent.She said she had no idea why she chose James Bond.She could neither remember nor construct a logical premise for her choice.

Somewhere in Chinatown

I'm somewhere in chinatown - a stranger in a strange place,

trying to get lost - trying to find myself

on a mountain questing for truth and honesty and peace

found lovebirds,disaffected teenagers and wayward youth.

The final coffin in the nail - a 17 year old cutting his toenails

visions of lost sanctity and solemnity

had me rushing down-wet ,pouring wet with sweat

truth be damned,honesty be damned,peace-

well, may peace be still with all of you

I certainly lost mine

 

It ain't over yet...

The opera isn't concluded until the full-figured woman offers her
vocal rendering.

Oh! So You don't wanna go there...
You don't wanna talk about it...
I don't care...
I wanna go there,I wanna talk about it.

After all, wasn't it me who was avoiding all that...STUFF?
C'mon.
Let's make haste.
My verbal diarrhea is acting up and I've got an itch up my ass.

And I don't hear any singing yet.