Bedpost Leanings

I was enhancing a rowboat near my riverside recording studio (the birthplace of my Celtic meanderings with Paradise Pussies) when a yard of communiqué rattled my fingers and caused me to react. I deciphered the message with the help of my senses and told the reader: "Ho, this is Ben. Just worrying about your mental state. Heard the latest Looking For Legs record and it disturbed me. Particularly the lines I just want those unholy eyes upon my chest/With the holster slipping favour at the mutual crest. And when a stream of rockets spoils the dockets in your pockets/You'll have another excuse when your eyes fall from their sockets from All The Spoilt Positions. Anyway, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid, but I think we should have a luncheon together. Ho-up." Poor Ben, I thought. He didn't get my subversive angle. But I decided to comply with his request.

Due to touring commitments with The Pink Butterflies, I had to postpone the meeting until the following week, so it was a later Friday when we met at a modest lunch-house and began an exchange much like the one that follows.
"Ho," said amiable Ben.
I nodded.
"Listen," he continued, "I'll get straight to the point: I'm worried about your mind."
"I gathered," I said.
"It's just that I'm afraid all this isolation and prolificacy seems to have had an affect on you — and your work." Ben looked genuinely concerned, and for a moment I was touched. Withdrawing my hand, I finally responded.
"Nonsense," I said.
"Then how do you explain A pillar arose from my southern clothes and froze Rose in a stunned pose?" he asked.
"I'd prefer to let the work speak for itself."
"And it does. That's why I'm here."
"Look Ben," I said, "you've got nothing to worry about. Without entirely ruining the mystique, I will say that you have been reading a lot of my lyrics at face-value."
"Well I sure hope so. But whatever comment you're trying to make, these perverse fascinations can't be healthy. I'd understand if you made the comment once, but it seems to crop up in every song you do these days."
I smiled. "That's the point."

This encounter inspired me to begin work on a new triple album for my rock-jazz outfit Praise The Pill entitled On My Hump. After writing the opening track, Elsie Has Blown A Fuse, I wandered outside with a satisfied smile and gazed at the river. No one was about.

The steam had dissipated when I returned and I decided to wait until tomorrow before I attempted any more songs. Still, I knew that I was on the verge of something great and would soon add to my many masterpieces. I began envisaging critical reaction on my bed and almost believed that I shall be released, if only for a moment.