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gwBush Lunaire (In memoriam Arnold Schoenberg (1874 -1951))

1. Prairie Moon

Moon of flat ambiance,
Like a brain shined down.
Mad critters in its beam:
They love its fugitive glow !

To show my feeling,
I fritter in ‘n’ out of its ward
Moon of flat ambiance,
Like a brain shined down.

I will make plans with this satellite,
Make it my point of demented relay.
From my base station here in Flatbeam
I will broadcast the burnt-up flora.
Moon of flat ambiance !

 

2. Roman Conquest

Potomac was a Rubicon,
Chariots of  Media took me there.
In the suspect woods of  the columns,
A horse is a horse of course.

I seen it I come on down I conquered.
Not as Caesar, but in the manor of marionette.
Potomac was a Rubicon,
Chariots of Media took me there.

We have brought order to Babelbrook
Simple puppet pleasures like a moon dance.
Trumpets and sandals and twang,
Laurels of Lassos,
Potomac was a Rubicon.

 

3. BBQ

Fry ‘em Hang ‘em Smoke ‘em out,
I gave the orders to the Moon.
It relayed back beamcasts,
I should obey its fiery requests.

Immolate reason with white Orbs,
Pepper Flambé ripe vocabularies.
Fry ‘em Hang ‘em Smoke ‘em out,
I gave the orders to the Moon.

Trucks fill with deserts,
I play my incessant trampoline
I aim Lunar Buddy in a snap,
Light the long match of  gypsy savannas.
Fry ‘em Hang ‘em Smoke ‘em out.

 

4. Lunar Serenade

Soft marks on th’ shiny surface,
Mare Tranquilem, Mare Somniferum
I would bathe in nuclear earth-glow,
If only m’self could reach holy satellite.

I stand as tall as y’all
On the lonely crumple watchtower.
Soft marks on th’  shiny surface,
Mare Tranquilem, Mare Somniferum.

Little doll, try to howl,
Oh, the sunken depression.
Madness squirts from bent frustration,
M’slf can’t land on its terra sancta.
Soft marks on th’ shiny surface!

 

5. Amerika

Spitting m’self in charge,
Evil-doers make me evil.
Patterns of broadband banners,
I shriek the fabric on news.

Round up for Moon men,
Moon rules apply in retrograde.
Spiting m’self in charge,
Evil-doers make me evil.

Lined up in pagan trajectory,
M’self charged it forth.
Amerika, great lunar fashion,
Sprang-up banners around the flats.
Spitting m’self in charge !

 

6. Puppet Arisen

Born-again to the golf god,
Where he deals me well.
Eyes on pyramids,
Builders brokers, Sun Ra.

Ra shines, but I want moon.
I want moon links prairies.
Born-again to the golf god,
Where he deals me well.

Moon, stammer beams.
Drench the Ra beam with mystery.
M’self want 36 holes under you,
Water hazards glimmering in thy holiness.
Born-again to the golf god !

 

7. Chnai Jhambi

Chnai Jhambi, gravity beast.
It shadows my moon-plays.
In the sweaty silence of worship,
An enigma juggernaut.

Labyrinthine concerns sewn lips.
Oily palms, fat polystyrene head.
Chnai Jhambi, gravity beast.
It shadows my moon-plays.

When the festival parade instantiates,
Big-Time head rises from blood celebrants.
The Puppetmaster bobbles along smirking,
Recasting my private moon-scores.
Chnai Jhambi, gravity beast !

 

8. Chanson Terrible

I dream a Theatre of  Beards,
Masquerade demons with scratchy plots.
Pointed accusations puff my temples,
The color codes film provocations.

Film Verité rattles from Media,
Salt and Glass chokes my babbles.
I dream a Theatre of Beards,
Masquerade demons with scratchy plots.

On my beloved Moon-Flats,
I long for the shaved and upright.
Moon men who see clearly moon,
Good moon, clean moon, honest moon.
I dream a Theatre of Beards !

 

9. Rhumba Loca

Rhumba Loca, steam-engine king.
Dance of alligator shoes and precipices.
Charges and rockets come from his trousers,
Media spurts with his moves.

In back rooms, smiling jungle fauna
Coo-coo and hiss to his shakes.
Rhumba Loca, steam-engine king.
Dance of alligator shoes and precipices.

Caves rustle in his world.
Every risen moon is harvested for grim.
He terrifies mine own puppet,
I feel moon-glow is upstaged.
Rhumba Loca, steam engine king !

 

10. Moustache Martinets

Moustache Martinets, black-eagled and green !
I have been hatching dark-side asides against you.
In the smooth Moon culture, you are sinister.
Left by a word, evil axes assault whiteness smoothness.

I have an eye on the Moon and an eye on you.
My third eye is blind, shutup and go home.
Moustache Martinets, black-eagled and green !
I have been hatching dark-side asides against you.

Moon troops rumbled, skies infatuated with them.
I found more and more banners to shoot skyward.
The Flatbeam ethic went into Broadband praise,
Mad Puppet-Moon-King Wins !
Moustache Martinets, black-eagled and green !