The Beat of a Different Drum by Geof
He walks where echoes refuse to follow, a syncopated step on puddled glass, soft-footed rebellion, quiet as dusk pressing its fingertips against the day.
No band behind him, no metronome’s kiss, just the pulse of stray thoughts tattooed across his chest like whispered defiance.
The world hums in straight lines, he scribbles sideways. Timbre raw. Cadence cracked. Every silence he breaks rings in technicolour truth.
You call it offbeat; he calls it becoming. In his rhythm, the rules unravel and leave room for the beautiful wrong.
The Different Beat of a Drum by Geof
Not syncopation. Not jazz. Not tribal echo on moonlit skin, but something else: a crackle in the chest when rules bruise the breath.
It starts in the soles, like friction turned gospel. No conductor, no call and response. Just bone vibration and a whisper that won't beg for translation.
This beat, it skews the grid, skips the tidy wrap of genre. It breaks the silence like a grin in a funeral march.
He plays it anyway, thumb on steel, heartbeat misfiring into music. Some call it dissonance. He calls it home.
The Drum of a Different Beat by Geof
It sat in the corner like it knew things, skin stretched tight over secrets, rim worn smooth by the hands of those who didn’t ask permission.
No sheet music. No conductor. Just breath and bruise, just instinct knocking on wood until sound fractured into meaning.
Its beat didn’t match your step. It changed your step. Bent time like a flame licking the wick before the burn.
Each strike: a sideways sermon. Each silence: a dare.
They tried to tune it. Tried to name it. But it throbbed with its own alphabet and whispered in pulses only the wild could follow.