In case you don’t know, I recently released an album (of actual songs) named Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1, based on the nowhere-town adventures of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his blind love interest Claire Javernick, and his best friend the sentient triceratops Lorenzo (no last name), back when they were 12-14 years old. You can download that album here.
The following song, that will be included in the next release of the first album, delves into young William’s private struggles.
In case you don’t know, I recently released an album (of actual songs) named Odes to My Triceratops, Vol. 1, based on the nowhere-town adventures of amateur songwriter William Griffin, his blind love interest Claire Javernick, and his best friend the sentient triceratops Lorenzo (no last name), back when they were 12-14 years old. You can download that album here.
These last few days, I’ve been relistening to my AI-generated songs almost exclusively, in the album’s order (both the first and the unreleased second one). In the first album, I noticed myself skipping certain songs. No reason to include in an album songs that I’d want to skip over, so I’m considering redoing some songs and moving others to a B-sides album thingy. In addition, I’ve written a couple of new songs for the first album, that I will include in a future re-release (one of a few, I’m guessing).
Anyway, here’s the sole song I’ve managed to produce today, titled “Tricera Girl.” It renders William’s infatuation with his next-door neighbor shortly after meeting her. I think it came out very well.
I hope you are enjoying my forays into Udio‘s AI services so it will generate songs according to my absurd specifications. You better have been enjoying them, because I’m about to clobber you with five new songs, a few of them excellent.
They are based on the song lyrics included in my bizarre free-verse narrative titled “Odes to My Triceratops.”
First one is a grunge track called “Lorenzo.” Possibly my favorite of the bunch.
Next up, a soothing traditional folk song titled “Lemonade and Willies.”
Now check out this lovely lullaby titled “My Friendo Lorenzo”.
Listen to this uplifting song about three friends having fun, titled “Claire With a C”:
Finally, an energetic garage rock song titled “Fairy Tale Too Real to Be.”
As I was trying to figure out what free-verse poem of mine to use as lyrics for the magnificent AI-music generator Udio, I realized I had completely forgotten about my “Odes to My Triceratops,” even though Lorenzo the triceratops is featured conspicuously on the banner of my site. That bizarre narrative includes the lyrics of about three-dozen fake songs created by an amateur songwriter named William Griffin, as well as some written by his blind next-door neighbor called Claire Javernick. Why not just turn them all into actual songs?
Here’s the first one, titled “Better Dead Than Blind”:
The lessons I’ve learned from my brief time generating AI songs are ones that musicians have likely also taken to heart: first, if some part of the lyrics doesn’t translate well when sung, just drop it. Also, the main goal is to create a song that you’d love to listen to over and over. I’ve succeeded in doing so with the following song, based on my oldish free-verse poem “A Visit From Truck-kun,” an ode to isekai (that requires a severe rewrite, probably even a reimagining).
Isn’t that fantastic? My two regrets: the annoying typo at the beginning (having written “tell” instead of “tells” in the lyrics). Also, that I couldn’t extend the song again to give it a proper intro.
Anyway, the song was generated using the Udio service, so far the best AI music generator.
I’m reminded regularly of chapter 69 of my ongoing novel We’re Fucked, because I get random hits from visitors who likely expected something different from the search that led them to a page titled “We’re Fucked, Pt. 69.” Sorry, fellas.
Anyway, in that chapter, my deranged protagonist Leire comes up with an idiotic poem about feeling like a monster. The magnificent music-generating service Udio has transformed, with some help, Leire’s poem into a shitty 90s pop-rock song. Enjoy it if you can.
This song-generating business is addicting. I adore music, and I listen to it daily to shut out the world or get in the mood during freewrites. I can’t imagine the masterpieces we’ll be able to generate in a year or two.
Before I finally go to sleep at three in the morning, check out this absolute banger I’ve put together with Udio, so far the best AI music creator I’ve ever come across. This following song sings parts of my free-verse poem titled Sasquatch Goddess:
That one’s going straight into my tablet so I can listen to it during my commutes. It’s probably a good thing that Udio doesn’t allow you to extend the song more than thirty seconds beyond that point, because I was considering generating music for the entire poem.
Anyway, very strange and interesting end times we’re living in.
Tonight, shortly after I returned home from my afternoon shift, I came to know about this lovely AI music generator called Udio. Because apparently I had nothing better to do other than sleep, I used some parts of my oldish free-verse poem titled Dinosaur Apocalypse to generate the following song that in general terms could be considered music:
I’m not sure why I chose to extend that song from the original thirty seconds, given that many other mini songs the AI created from my instructions were far more pleasant. But I’m beyond questioning my actions at this point of my life. Anyway, check out that site; there’s lots of surprisingly great music being generated. If you’re one of those rabid anti-AI people, nobody can help you: AI is here to stay and will likely become more intelligent than the whole of humanity in a couple of years or so. Just enjoy the ride until AI kills us all.
If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short story (or novella) from the beginning (link here).
On my train ride back from work,
Inside an eggshell-white passenger car,
Slumped with weariness in a plasticky seat
As if my muscles and bones sought to dissolve,
Lethargy pulled down my eyelids
While I fought to remain awake.
At my stop, I exited dragging mutinous feet,
Then trudged my way to a purported refuge.
In the past, after the workday had drained me
And I returned to my parents’ apartment,
I ensconced myself in my childhood bedroom.
Many such afternoons, I dropped onto bed,
Where, as white noise coursed through my limbs,
I slipped into daydreams or hallucinations.
Now, when I opened my apartment’s door
To the smell of home-cooked food
Mingled with those of baby powder and cigarettes,
I faced my lawyer-turned-stay-at-home-mom,
Who looked pale and jittery, stimulated by a cocktail
Of caffeine, nicotine, and food-derived boosters.
She unloaded her day’s frustrations onto me,
Her patient listener and supportive husband,
Who could barely string coherent sentences.
I yearned to collapse onto the couch
And indulge in the oblivion of mindless shows,
But my wife had waited for the chance to escape
And puff on her damnable sticks in the balcony,
So I, as if prodded by a cattle farmer’s pole,
Was thrust into a chain of duties.
I tended to our baby, who spent his waking life
Cooing, babbling, crying, and pooping.
I changed his diapers, bottle-fed him formula,
Wiped the trickle of milk dripping from his chin,
Played with him until his squeals fizzled out,
And struggled to soothe his colicky self.
I went out on evening errands
Such as buying snacks or cigarettes,
Fetching prescriptions from the pharmacy,
Or perusing supermarket aisles for deals.
I held plastic-wrapped packages of meats
While the fluorescent tubes overhead
Bounced reflections off the polished tiles.
As if the apartment wanted to fall apart,
I had to replace burned-out bulbs,
Repair leaky faucets,
Unclog slow-draining pipes;
Tasks that I, who had grown up drawing,
Should have known by instinct how to do.
I didn’t complain against an adult’s fate,
That of ants, termites, or bees,
Perpetually teeming.
Besides, I received the orders from my wife,
Who had sought me out and witnessed me.
I had become a vessel for her hope,
And I didn’t dare discard it.
In the amber glow of the nursery lamp,
I rocked our baby in my arms
And crooned “Brahms’ Lullaby”
As I paced under the gaze of a plush giraffe.
Sleep is a realm, or a void,
Into which one eagerly dives and drowns.
Why would a baby fight the descent?
What better way to spend one’s time,
What lovelier gift could anyone hope for
Than a momentary reprieve from consciousness?
After my baby’s eyelids drifted shut
And his drowsy coos trailed off,
With him cradled in his crib,
I snuck into the master bedroom
And slid under the covers
Beside my wife’s warmth.
As I lay like a bruised, spent sailor
Whose ship had battled tempests,
Finally left alone, I sank
Into the ocean of the subconscious,
From whose murk you emerged,
Gliding through the viscous tides,
Your caramel locks billowing,
Arms extended toward me.
Tangled and embraced, we swam
Out of reach from the surface.
Through a gap in the bathroom door, I glimpsed
My topless, teary-eyed wife’s reflection.
She was grimacing bitterly at her midriff:
Over the waistband of her panties, which pressed
Into the softened roundness of her lower belly,
The overhead light accentuated, deepened,
A cluster of stretch marks surrounding the navel
In patterns of silvery and flesh-toned scratches.
With a fingertip, she traced the striae
That reminded her of the burden taken on,
And the toll it had exacted.
He lay cocooned in a blue woolen onesie,
His chubby fists curled near his cheeks,
His pacifier abandoned in a corner
Like a bone of a half-consumed victim.
From his barrel-shaped chest,
The ribs rose and fell rhythmically
As his small lungs expanded and contracted,
Preparing to spew volcanic ash.
Overlooking this dormant bundle of rage,
This little tyrant from a hostile planet,
I, his caretaker, or slave, stood motionless,
Dreading that the alien would awaken
And, while thrashing his tiny limbs,
Erupt in an incandescent wail
That would pierce my eardrums
And ripple through my bones,
Shattering my sanity.
The shower’s scorching jets
Steamed as they scoured my skin,
Streaming down my hunched spine.
I clawed at my skull;
Another goddamn Monday morning
Of a suffocating cycle
That would last lifetimes.
What was I holding out for?
That your ghost would burst in
And whisk me away from this cage
To resume where we had left off
A decade ago?
Cloistered within steam,
Under the drumming of water,
I whispered “Izar, Izar, Izar,”
A plea for help, an invocation.
The hooks were carving deeper,
And trickles of blood
Were dragged down the drain.
In a weekday evening, crumpled on the couch,
I had drifted off only to jolt awake.
A cartoon flickered on the TV screen,
Mingling its colors with the apartment’s lights.
At the edge of my blurred vision,
My son’s toddling form loomed
As he, clad in dinosaur pajamas,
Dragging a stuffed plush puppy,
Explored the living room
In a quest for the limits of the known,
Or anything to gum and drool on.
His clumsy fingers seized the remote,
That he shook experimentally.
The TV blackened.
Author’s note: today’s song is “La puerta de al lado” by Los Rodríguez.
If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.
If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short story (or novella) from the beginning (link here).
After my pregnant lawyer quit smoking,
Her poised persona devolved
Into furrowed brows, clenched jaws,
Shifting in her seat, pacing aimlessly.
To keep her mouth busy, she snacked constantly
On nuts and seeds like almonds and walnuts,
That she seasoned with soliloquies
About her research into dietary changes
Which would maximize fetal health.
She increased her intake of kale and spinach,
Chock-full of folates, nutrients for a growing brain.
She switched to whole grains rich in B vitamins,
And integrated more milk, yogurt, and cheese,
Hoping that one day, out of her would emerge a baby,
Instead of some godforsaken abomination.
Together we researched cribs and strollers.
She shelved her popular novels and self-help books
For guides on babies’ developmental stages,
Creating a nurturing home for a child,
And balancing motherhood with a career.
As if bracing for a shadow boxer’s pounce
From the corners of her mind to sucker-punch her,
She swung words at phantoms, often striking me.
During legal arguments, she found her wit blunted,
Her sentences faltering, her thoughts scattering,
And she suspected that those colleagues of hers
As useful as shadows in a blackout
Gossiped about her incompetence.
When one dared to rib her, she snarled
Like a cornered junkyard dog.
Until now a lawyer focused on her career,
She pondered reducing hours or working remotely
To dedicate more energy to our awaited baby.
The lawyer and I indebted ourselves
To a bank, my parents, and my in-laws
To buy a second-hand, two-bedroom apartment
On a fifth floor, with built-in wardrobes,
Electric heating, and an American-style kitchen;
Located in San Pedro Street, beside the Bidasoa River,
Near the primary school you and I had attended.
The largest bedroom bloomed into a nursery
Equipped with a crib of white wood;
A mobile adorned with stars; a changing table;
Wall stickers of lions, monkeys, giraffes, elephants;
A sturdy, comfortable rocking chair;
And set on a nightstand, a lamp with a dimmer.
Inside the master bedroom,
In a corner of the wardrobe,
I tucked the moving box
Housing my keepsakes of you.
The hems of my row of shirts
Draped over the lid as if caressing it.
In that confined darkness,
Your figurines, my comic strips,
Your motorcycle gloves
And handwritten letters,
The tapes with our pretend shows,
Photos that had captured you,
All aged second by second
While you remained eighteen.
Evenings lost in the glow of dramas,
Lying on the couch watching TV
With our legs and fingers entwined.
The heat emanating off her curvy body.
The scent of freshly-brewed tea.
Shelves of books and DVDs,
Framed motivational quotes.
The lunar landscape of my existence
Had become inhabited.
Her cravings escalated to chips, doughnuts,
Potato omelets, ice cream, fried pork meatballs,
And whatever she could munch or suck on,
From candies and energy bars to popsicles.
She gained weight, her breasts swelled.
I made myself useful by rubbing her feet
And massaging away the aches from her joints
While she, amidst balled-up snack wrappers,
Pored over childcare books, flipping pages
With her cigarette-deprived fingers.
She zigzagged along an agonizing route:
Aversions, headaches, insomnia,
Nausea, vomiting, constipation,
Anxious gynecological appointments,
Prenatal yoga, birthing classes,
Nightmares of miscarriages and stillbirths,
Of episiotomies, hemorrhages, C-sections,
Of premature infants hooked to machines.
At night, she clutched her belly,
Fearing the budding life inside
Would twist and strangle itself.
Whenever I failed to intuit her needs,
She snapped at me, and slammed doors.
At times, exhausted, loathing herself,
She sobbed inconsolably,
And repeated that she had botched her career.
Sprawled across the bed, backaches gripping her
Thanks to the demon’s growing weight, she cried,
“Why the fuck did I need a goddamn baby?!”
The echo of “Fly Me to the Moon” playing elsewhere
Resonated in the sepulchral bedchamber.
Dust motes danced in the beams of evening sunlight
Spilling through windows stained by time.
The light gilded an ornate, full-length frame
Adorned with carvings of wildflowers,
That encased a scratched and scuffed mirror
Whose bottom third was marred
By a dried-out splatter resembling rust.
Within that glass portal, you, my Izar,
Wore a dress with a pleated bodice,
Dyed like the blush of summer dawn.
Your caramel locks cascaded in gentle waves,
Framing your twinkling eyes and buoyant smile,
Both alight with recognition.
Through the mirror, you strode into the room.
As you padded barefoot towards a vast bed,
You made your dress glide over your head,
Leaving the fabric to flutter downward.
You rolled onto the plush duvet, lay supine,
And illuminated your face with a playful grin,
Showcasing those crooked front teeth.
Your satin, coral-pink panties glimmered
As you eased them down your thighs.
“Fly me to the moon,” you asked.
I awoke to faint snoring,
To a naked, round-bellied woman
Whose swollen breasts heaved against me
In the warmth of the night.
Before you vanished once again,
I shut my eyes tight
And gathered the dream’s fragments
As I fondled my partner to her senses.
Our breaths mingled,
Her ballooned belly brushed my abdomen.
My hardness delved into the silky folds,
Becoming engulfed in your warm currents.
I pictured you bouncing on me,
Your caramel waves bobbing,
Your breasts shuddering.
Light and shadow played across your torso,
Accentuating the ridges of your ribs
And the grooves of your abdominal muscles
Under smooth, taut skin sheened with sweat.
The outline of your pelvic bones emerged
With each rock-and-roll of your hips.
Your thighs trembled,
Your fervent moans grew ragged.
My hands clenched the bedsheets
And her nails dug into my back
As I thrust desperately,
Escalating the slaps of colliding flesh,
Until I released all that hurt and sorrow
Into the cushioning waters.
Under the moist bed linens,
Your figure merged with the lawyer’s,
Who nestled against my side
While the fetus’ kicks nudged me.
She loved me with an infant on the way;
It should have been enough
To hang onto and live for.
On a rainy Sunday morning,
A gush of clear fluid soaked the mattress.
The woman grimaced and cursed
As she clutched her belly like a wound.
Labor pains, hours of pushing,
Sweat and tears mixed in her eyelashes,
Her crushing grip bruising my fingers,
Tearing of flesh, blood loss,
Insults flung at me for knocking her up,
Feral screams and utter helplessness.
Ripped out of the womb with forceps,
Emerging into the harsh fluorescence,
Coated in blood and amniotic fluid,
Arrived a screeching, blue-tinged thing,
A sea creature destined to die ashore.
While our newborn’s wrinkled limbs jerked
And his scrunched, purple face twitched
As he protested against the indignity of birth,
The obstetrician cut and clipped his umbilical cord.
A nurse, efficient like a conveyor worker,
Suctioned the mucus from the baby’s nose,
Rubbed his skin with a towel to cleanse him of gore,
Then placed him in my partner’s trembling arms.
Weeping, shell-shocked, she gasped,
“Oh god, I’m his mother.”
Lying in a plastic bassinet, swaddled in a blanket,
My rosy-skinned, plump-cheeked firstborn fussed,
His miniature fists protruding from the binding.
My fingers brushed the silky tuft of black hair
That crowned his defenseless head.
Over the years, the clay mold of his body
Would take on the contours of the boy,
Then the man he would become,
Perhaps one who, despite life’s challenges,
Would never falter, never give up,
Who would pursue his dreams,
And remain free of sorrow.
On an October weekend, at Irún’s city hall,
The lawyer and I signed documents
Affirming our legal partnership.
While my mother-in-law held her grandson,
And my parents pretended you had never existed,
I posed for wedding photos alongside my wife
In a dimly-lit corner of the registry office,
Standing theatrically still.
I wore a well-fitted charcoal-gray suit;
My bride, a sleeveless ivory gown
Dappled with flower embroidery.
I had shoved my hands in my pockets;
She, solemn and lost in thought,
Clutched a bouquet of red roses.
My sunken eyes bore a piercing gaze
That stared past the confines of the photo
At someplace distant and unreachable.
Starting my own family, getting married,
Both promised a rebirth,
But even now, remembering that ceremony
Fills me with sorrow for her, and for this life
That carelessly tossed us together.
As a girl, my wife must have fantasized
About her special day, about prince charming.
Instead, she ended up bound to a wreck
Whose cracks oozed tar,
Who dreaded to look beside him at his bride
In case a dead teenager gazed back.
Author’s note: today’s songs are “This Is How It Always Starts” by Grandaddy, and “Only in Dreams” by Weezer.
If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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