I had always wanted a harmonica
I was a boy, I liked to make noise
My dad had a friend visit one day
I remember he wore a suit and hat
an older gentleman with stern expression
He drove an old car
what i learned later was a classic
“Hello young man. Nice to meet you”
“thank you sir.”
I think I have something you just might like
From his pocket he pulled a rectangular box
See what you think of this
Inside, a shiny silver harmonica
I was ecstatic.
Thank you. thank you. thank you
I went off making an awful, wonderful racket
i think I even slept with the thing
I carried in my pocket and brought it out
time to time to give a tumultuous toot
One day it went missing
I looked and looked but could not find it
Dad came home one day after work
I met him in the drive
There in the rocks laid my harmonica
Run over by a tire
What sounded horrible before with my lack of skill
now crushed and out of tune
made such a horrendous hullabaloo
It gave me a bigger thrill!
Bob Dylan was perched upon the balcony between the rose bush and the blonde woman, smiling coy. The sound of the harmonica interrupting the silence every now and again. To be a fly on the wall.
my path home was led by his harmonica. He said he would try to leave the streets. Hi, Mr. Smith, it’s good to see you tonight. Did you leave the shelter early after dinner?
A cliché crying through the night, shooting-star streaked hillside, boots off, toes in the grass, offering to land leeches and mosquitoes. Low buzzes and high squeals sink to the town below, become saturated in the lights and downcast eyes, and remain unnoticed. No matter how hard you make it scream, it falls upon a deaf world. Bamboo thickets chink and tap in their own rhythm, a sense of someone always being just behind your back, a sense someone is listening. A song that slows until it is just one sorrowful, sustained note. Vines make their way through airways, in their eagerness to make their own song they silence it. Ankles bitten away, swollen, drained to bone. Metal rusts in acid rain turned acidic dirt. One note remains, in the spaces in between the blades of grass.
Isn’t there always something playing. Something playing the background. if it isn’t an instrument than it’s you. Does it matter how bad or good you are? Only you can tell or maybe the law. I don’t know. It’s over.
I was seven when my father gave me a harmonica. it was silver and red and I wasn’t good at it at first, but then I decided to give it a try. I started to blow it and mime like I saw singers on Tv doing, but I could barely produce any sound…
His harmonica sat in the case beside his bed. It had been a while since he last played. He hadn’t played since she left but he couldn’t bring himself to put or throw it away. It was the last thing she touched, he remembered.
The sound of the harmonica coming from behind me stopped me cold in my tracks. No one ever played that instrument except for one man. Him. I turned slowly, composing my face from emotion.
the wind blows into a harmonica
and me over onto my armonica
shoulda never went to Guernica
pardon, couldja pass me the arnica
I had always wanted a harmonica
I was a boy, I liked to make noise
My dad had a friend visit one day
I remember he wore a suit and hat
an older gentleman with stern expression
He drove an old car
what i learned later was a classic
“Hello young man. Nice to meet you”
“thank you sir.”
I think I have something you just might like
From his pocket he pulled a rectangular box
See what you think of this
Inside, a shiny silver harmonica
I was ecstatic.
Thank you. thank you. thank you
I went off making an awful, wonderful racket
i think I even slept with the thing
I carried in my pocket and brought it out
time to time to give a tumultuous toot
One day it went missing
I looked and looked but could not find it
Dad came home one day after work
I met him in the drive
There in the rocks laid my harmonica
Run over by a tire
What sounded horrible before with my lack of skill
now crushed and out of tune
made such a horrendous hullabaloo
It gave me a bigger thrill!
Bob Dylan was perched upon the balcony between the rose bush and the blonde woman, smiling coy. The sound of the harmonica interrupting the silence every now and again. To be a fly on the wall.
she whistled to the tune of the harmonica, a corpse of the woman she once was.
“will you play that again, darling? mother used to love that tune when we were young and alive.”
my path home was led by his harmonica. He said he would try to leave the streets. Hi, Mr. Smith, it’s good to see you tonight. Did you leave the shelter early after dinner?
A cliché crying through the night, shooting-star streaked hillside, boots off, toes in the grass, offering to land leeches and mosquitoes. Low buzzes and high squeals sink to the town below, become saturated in the lights and downcast eyes, and remain unnoticed. No matter how hard you make it scream, it falls upon a deaf world. Bamboo thickets chink and tap in their own rhythm, a sense of someone always being just behind your back, a sense someone is listening. A song that slows until it is just one sorrowful, sustained note. Vines make their way through airways, in their eagerness to make their own song they silence it. Ankles bitten away, swollen, drained to bone. Metal rusts in acid rain turned acidic dirt. One note remains, in the spaces in between the blades of grass.
Isn’t there always something playing. Something playing the background. if it isn’t an instrument than it’s you. Does it matter how bad or good you are? Only you can tell or maybe the law. I don’t know. It’s over.
I was seven when my father gave me a harmonica. it was silver and red and I wasn’t good at it at first, but then I decided to give it a try. I started to blow it and mime like I saw singers on Tv doing, but I could barely produce any sound…
His harmonica sat in the case beside his bed. It had been a while since he last played. He hadn’t played since she left but he couldn’t bring himself to put or throw it away. It was the last thing she touched, he remembered.
The sound of the harmonica coming from behind me stopped me cold in my tracks. No one ever played that instrument except for one man. Him. I turned slowly, composing my face from emotion.