etching its way through the fractal road practical stowed in the crevices
psychic ceviche but there is no lime
ticking in the aftermath when there is no time

taste the acid etching through the crevasse under the corpus callosum, widening the divide between what we calculated and what was chosen

Sour thoughts and smooth brains talking about soft hands and black stains on lung scans but not enough miles on my airplane scans to smoke a camel in quicksands…

Where were we?

susurrations of scales over sands expands the bands of spectrums still unseen in the violence of the liquid scream
the only comfort in the taiga is the lack of scales and thermal vision, making the frisson of fear of the enlightening one

the glowing son

the burning sun

am I the only one?

But this fertile garden now frozen in fear, the fertilizer steaming in the fresh fallen ice
looking for the navigation device
or just the vice
that drove the motor
the engines
over the edge

the irony of freezing to death staring into the eldritch fusion reactor we call god.

The post Etching appeared first on Bass Bastard.

It disguises as need

it knows when that has failed

it wants

the echo not decaying
just reverberating
I want
becoming obsession

lying to me that I need

I want

It

the hollow one needing me to consume in it’s name

forever empty
forever in me
it feeds on misery

If there is happiness it is not
if there is growth it is rot
it triggers on the absence of it

it needs it
it is the ever present drive
of want

it gets in your head
it drives false need
it leaves you hungry
when it makes you feed

consume for want

It wants to be bigger
It wants to be small
It wants the shiny things
It wants it all

it wants nothing
so it can be filled again
it is empty
so the want can begin

I want

It

to

be

silent

The post Want appeared first on Bass Bastard.

Memory is not a shelter
it is a trap for the unprepared
a hole in the row, as cavities grow
and the rictus is mistaken for smiles

a shell of a comfortable mirror
pointed back but not pointed to self
never looking ahead to the alternate paths
just falling into the concentric patterns of death

Shatter the walls of reverie
tradition and how the things were
a trap set by the lazy unconscious
and the death rattle of growing’s last breath

Memory is for reference
Now is for life
the future is chaos blooming
Stop digging and start nurturing existence

Lose the anchors
lower the stones
breath and walk free into now
create today without false resistance

The post Looking Back Blind appeared first on Bass Bastard.

Stare at the blank page. Stare at the empty DAW. Stare at the keys. The strings. The silent powered-off amplifier. The empty canvass.

The chemicals just bounce around in a neural stew. No answers. Just agonizing white noise refusing to resolve into a sensory gift.

Defy the static. Turn on the amp. Drag a sound into the DAW. Strum the strings. Press the keys. Make zero sense. Write nonsense words strung together arhythmically.

Motion defies entropy.

Motion defies entropy.

Move.

The post The Process appeared first on Bass Bastard.

It means not gate keeping bass. I’m about upright Bass, electric bass, acoustic bass, upright electric bass, low brass, bass woodwinds, contra bass, synth bass, piano bass, keyboard bass, EDM bass, Perseus Cluster bass, bass drums, that huge log in the jungle you can pound for a bass, Taiko bass… All the Bass yet to be discovered and that ice missed here.

This means I’m about building the foundations of music. Blowing that gates off that the gatekeepers use to try and curate genre and style and show that the same foundation carries us all on this beautiful path to what we all consider music. Even bands I don’t like.

This is the beginning of the path to being a Bassbastard.

The post The Bass appeared first on Bass Bastard.

I was threatened with hell today
Filled with the memories of the places I’d play
Where at least the suffering was ordered and expected
And the quiet solitude of being left alone; neglected.

My visitor spoke of past visits we had
Small talk filling the space filled with air gone bad
Silver linings of the accidents finding a cure
The pain was cleansing of I could endure

We called up God and asked what made them irate
they said it was who made them that was filled with hate
They were dreamed up by us needing an excuse
for the shit that we did and all the abuse

We pretended that service was what we required
but in gods we created the reasons we desired
to be righteous in the depravity we sought
sold our souls for excuses and that’s what we bought

The post T Time appeared first on Bass Bastard.