Stream-writing to "Ummagumma" at night

Events unfold, and I, an innocent child, watch in wonder...
Not afraid of the downpours, lightning and thunder.

Until the sharp, sudden pain
Stabbing again and again,
Unravelling I, quite insane.

Is there some lesson there? Some attempts to be clever, to rhyme, to unwind?

As the piano crashes through the bass register,
And the drum cymbals clash and clang,
And the sounds stomp around my brain:
Left ear, Right ear, Stereo...
Perhaps all just experimental noise,
Challenging our notions of what songs need be,
Or creating some symphonic story.
Screeches and screams pulled from guitars
And then silence, and possibly bowing of violins.

I rather enjoy Ummagumma,
Especially with headphones on -
One of my favorite effects songs from the Floyd,
Planted there as a teen,
Listening to my brother's stereo:
"Several Species of Small Furry Animals
Gathered Together in a Cave,
Grooving With a Pict"

Is the stage set yet?
I want to be innocence,
I do not like pain -
However, some pains are hidden
By their slow onset,
Endured way past the boundary of pleasure;
Remember that suffering comes from attachment and desire -
That our aversions and attractions both
Make life uneasy and difficult...

I do not want elation;
I want serenity and peace -
To feel neutral towards all,
And unbiased in my observations,
Uncolored by incomplete judgements.

"Granchester Meadow" now plays,
Gently soothing, like some folk song.
I do not know if the vocals
Are really innocent,
or are they hiding some unknown protests?
The bird song plays out,
Yet I think it may be showing off
Subtle guitar and synth tricks...

After writing all of the above,
I wonder if I've written anything to love?
Or am I a blathering village idiot,
Devoid of wise insight
Because I have avoided pains,
Sharp sudden and stabbing,
Or long, drawn-out, slowly dawning...?

And the fly gets smacked!

Queue the small furry animals!

Chipmunks beating out a crazy rhythm,
Chirping and chattering and
"Hum-bah-ha-whee!!"
A Pause While I recollect
Fond memories of starfleet battles across the hall,
As my brother's reconfigured SR-71 Blackbird,
With hidden hanger bay and moving cannons
Stands as a testament to his remodeling skills...

Ah, the chipmunk trumpets begin,
The Pict is eminent....
Echoed by a squirrel -
That I think is his incoherent speech
Sped up on a doubling loop...

"Ironic Plaaaaague!!!"
"And the Wind Cried Mary."

Have you read all the way to this part, now?
I've been mostly trying to describe an album to you,
Occassionally sneaking in references to other sides of life, too...
I do not know if I've done either justice.

I'm awake.
...and I crave.
Some easy conversation, yes...
Some connection to greater whole...
Shared experiences of lives before Facebook.
...or maybe I'm just throwing words out,
Cranking the poetic wheel, hoping beyond hope that
When the dust settles, truths will remain here, still.