The Music of Stuart Jones

Numb Ram

Fellow composer, writer and software developer James Boros wrote this poem for my 40th birthday. I decided to use it as the basis for a short computer-music piece. Thus far I have set the first stanza of Jim’s poem, but I plan to set the entire piece in a larger work.

NUMB RAM: A BIRTHDAY STORY FOR STUART JONES

Stealthily, “Crop Nuzzler” Cha-Cha-Bozo leapt into
the brassiere grinder, reducing herself -- and her
undulating sphere of artificial PVC frockery -- to
a chummy li’l pile of Coptic drag razors / Sputnik
rotisserie twinklings. Oh, can you imagine... Pots
that sing! Sri Lankan gadflies with soot-encrusted
Jasmines! And, to top it off: a big ol’ Agnew mask
on top of my Harley’s frontispiece! Ah, life... If
nothing remains, then it may be difficult to rouse
each Toltec, and to comprehend how the solar winds
sought out antiquity’s halftime during the faxing.

Silly little Bok globule! If a prancing rabbinical
tollbooth’s clod-splattering memo (acting as proxy
under Section Null) clouds the matter with delight
and strewn tulips, Casper clearly waxes and Waynes
regardless of Newton’s gibbous choco-gnarl. Spores
that follow, follow, follow... Can Santa get them?
Jolted by prosperity, and by their foreheads, arty
otter biters savagely probed their sockets for any
noodling melodies that might not have escaped. Yo,
emphasis can truly renounce stylish fudgesicles; a
staring poodle’s girth yields portentous yappings.

Sogginess is not a quality I desire! Fork it over,
tugboat! Galaxies of daydream, fronds of pattycake
upside round, invoices from unidentified Jefferson
articulators... What more? Why the heck not? And a
rooster dared to lean over, right into his mammy’s
tele-prayer, as if the dead were only spastic raps
Johnny recited in his sleet. (It’s amazing that no
one was hurt!) Golly, dontcha think all them there
nuclear urinal retreats wuz just a load o’... What
eyeball? Bronson, I must have my slider now! Could
supper be delayed until a little (bam!) afterglow?

Suppressed by her majesty’s laughing gland, Gloppy
took a giant ball of Bigfoot fur, dipped it in the
unconscious conductor’s magnetic field, and rammed
arthritic stochastic plastic into his inner shelf,
raggedly chewing out the freshman’s totals. Sugary
tackle ‘n’ crap like that never caused him misery.
Judging by the way the natives manipulated plasma,
one might assume the burst. (Would you rather flip
noogies over a henhouse or tunnel toward Ethiopian
eclipses of the sock drawer?) (I beg to differ!) A
silent idiocy hung over the town; Meg ran into pie.

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