a breakfast for losers...

The ass-breath was supposedly coming from her socks. She said, "Tell me whether my feet smell!" She had been wearing her shoes all day while making wine with blueberries and scotch. I just shrugged my shoulders, and timidly told her I did not smell a thing. With that I continued to wrap my fingers around the keys. I played to the languid melodies which were permeating from out of my sweat glands. She stopped my fingers to count out loud; sixteenth note on top of a quarter eighth note and end it with a dot which adds up to a 36 second release and FORTE!! My vision blurred at this moment as her browning fingers tapped the sheet and the dirt in between her fingernails landed on G sharp. I could not comprehend her mystical, logical, magical, philosophical, physical mathematical words. My fingers could only comprehend the sound that hovered over the sheet and constricted the air waves in the crevices of my brain, and my wrists dislocate with a twist. I stick my head into the piano to take a closer look at the shiny music that seemed to go ka boom, boom, ba, ba, da, di, do, clap. She yells, "Do not frown and play it without obligation!" There is a deep, sacrilegious defeat, and my fingers blush. I should not have frowned. We started again, and this time I held my breath. My fingers scaled the surface of the keys, tickling the possibility of a grandiose ending. The keys replied with, "Try again next time!" But I did it anyways. From adagio with slow, intimate sweeps of the fingertips, to andante where my heart skips, and jumps to allegro where my fingers are doing the tango, and PRESTO! ! ! And then my finger slips, and I hit the most excruciating B flat. There is a sympathetic vibration from her socks, and I faint from the nauseating smell of ass-breath.

True Story.

And now, a haiku. Who says you have to write about nature.