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Saturday, December 18, 2010
Woe Is Uh Me Bop
On Friday, December 17, 2010, Don Van Vliet aka Captain Beefheart passed away several weeks shy of his 70th birthday from complications from multiple sclerosis. Our Dalai Lama of avant garde, our Patron Saint to all uncompromising rock musicians who admantly followed their vision of a new sound is no longer with us, but let out just like the Big Eyed Beans From Venus. He is now the long lunar note that's out there floating.
ONE MAN SENTENCE by Don Van Vliet (c1970)
Inside the tub-ette on the small duplex tile shadow of my hand made a movie wolf head the dangling cigarette made a long fire tipped tube resembling a smoking fang which curled from his mouth to my mouth then slowly into the peeled back tiny mouths of the flaky enamel ceiling above my shaggy head a test of endurance metered by what with things changing this fast I drown the soggy creature through his wet butt out of the bath tubette trembling as it was a small room with a very large open window he bounced and disappeared off the sill into morning aching and yawning like a neglected tooth that took root in both night and day.
THE BEEP SEAL by Captain Beefheart (c1970)
The beep seal I saw once as a child So life like it almost made me cry It started with its eye glass and one glue bubble Caught on its whiskers Its mouth was closed So as not to insult the observer Its canine teeth were red plastic N' its molars were stained green by straw Excluding it from the carnivoris (sic) and Putting it in the vegetarian bracket All of this I viewed from the mistake in The side of the jaw By pressing my cheek up close To the glass on the other side Of the red felt roped off area This side of the jaw was obviously not intended For public observation Or was the ripped stitch flipper That was carelessly tucked under in a futile Attempt to hide the careless workman ship Which only added to the agony I felt For the display that lived once again Hurriedly put together... There was a small crack in the glass that Emitted the odor of string footballs And formaldehyde And salt water The mites balanced on the tiny feather collars The red tinfoil hummingbird bones - Siper neglected but one flower on the bush This odor faded quickly with a feeling of torn Muscle 'n a burning in my armpit as I was yanked By a hard hand and told tears streaming down my face magnifying my tiny shoes into shiny leather monsters That I was only to view Life on the other side of the red felt Roped off Designated area