Beautiful Noise Girls Raped My Heart/Andante Maestoso

Saints took me. They took me to The Smell.

Aloof, Mushroom, and the Dishwasher, I went with.

The first women who played sat on her leg. She had long brown hair and slowly drifted her hands to turn the knobs to the dials that played the frequencies like fingertips on crystal glasses.

As I stood I could focus on her, the single light that separated her from the seaweed off the shore, barely swaying from right to left again. Sticks in the cup of water that stood upward, and every single vibration could suspend the sticks into the air for a moment. My eyes would stare at the light beneath her and the darkness turned to spinning needle tips.

Her music felt like the treble of the ocean, as it rang out in a contained, but sharp quintet of dense notes echoed throughout the misshaped venue.

The time she began playing the more I began fantasizing about the Asian girl in the turquoise top with the log black hair.

A couple of people replaced her on the stage. A woman and a man.

Her name is Shannon Kennedy. Her band is called Pedestrian Deposit.

She was slender, with a very narrow face. Her right ear had a hook with feathers on it, making the side of her face similar to dream catchers. She and her music partner had a collage of foot pedals.

Before the set, she mercilessly tried to pull the metal bar out of the base of a cello. The cello seemed to have resided in a derelict ship underwater. The wood looked rotten, the strings looked rusted, and the bow was filthy.

(Seen above with different hair.)

The disgusting and vile instrument seemed to compliment her beauty.

She had a console of candle holders, where the fifth and final tip had broken off.

The light once more fell around these two people, and the music began.

She was running the bow across the candlestick console, while her partner was adjusting the synthesizers.

The sound of fingertips on bare skin seemed to emanate from the bow onto the metal.

Soon, she set down the console and brought the cello to her body. A wooden person who desired the embrace of this mother of the color crude oil. Her pale face looked to her feet, speculating the floor. Her black fingernails twisted slowly around her tree child, as if crying from the abuse of being carved into a music instrument for the enjoyment of sad, sad beings.

The audio tears harmonized one another as the antagonist in the performance created a wall of noise.

The antagonist beside her created a consistent barrier of auditory density. The world began crumbling around us, and the rotten wood child ceased sobbing at the gaze of it's mother.

I strolled across the unusually long venue to eventually come to sit on an old red couch.

A girl with an earle piercing sat at the other end of the couch. She was stunning.

I watched her at the musician's market stand and I watched her at the bookshelf, but I didn't notice when she walked from the stand to the shelf.

She sat at the other end of the couch.

We had made eye contact during the first performance. Once again, I wanted another girl. A stranger who I hadn't met before, another person to press my empty lips against for the satisfaction of freedom through emotional demoralization. I'm sure by the location she was at, by the way she dressed, and by the piercing near her brow she must have felt depraved.

To be direct, I stared at her. I stared at her while she read the DIY publication titled Bullshit!  I stared at her, hoping between now and the final performer, we would speak.

My plan was to stare at her until she looked back, so I could engage her. She gnawed on her thumb, possibly anxious. She chewed and bit and didn't say a word, and didn't acknowledge me after she took her seat.

She had cut the backs of her jeans, with large slits, so when she sat down curled up you could see the lingerie beneath the denim. I want a girl who dresses like that.

I didn't have much of a plan than ask her what her name was, and what her interest was, and who she came with. I just wanted to talk to her.

I should have recklessly spoken to her. I'll most likely never see her again, and someday soon, I will cease to care, but the next time I see her, I will talk to her.

Maybe next time at The Smell.


There are moments when you can stop the world
Remember that friends, don' t be sad