My old trumpets and trombone slides
Sit unopened and cured with the dusty attics formaldehyde  aromas.  
My lips dry  up like mummified beef  to their ancient smell of old black bibles and their taped up cardboard tombs.  I find myself unable to break their mossy temple structures where I practiced my classical studies and could feel my whole kingly persona taming auditoriums and thrones of asp faced judges.  But now my structure and stamina ruined and gone like a ginger bread piano.

Its ok if you came alone
You didn't miss much
Unless you noticed
The woman who
Touched the
Longest mustache
In Poland.  
She was drunk
And laughed
At the names
Of every cartoon
He resembled.  
I felt like a ****
Watching
Them murmur
Their wry
Whispers.  
Unaware
Of the mans friend
With giant white ears.

My golden brass
Did you hear a silver tone.
One day I remembered the sound we made.
Oh boy with thirteen trys
I played the song of things.
The sound was a still like a drop of rain.
Great full Holst composed his eyes in vain.
And now im chopping my lips with my dreaded lay over.
Five years ago and now im searching the twenties
For old photographs  about the way I played.
My heart stops and excepts the choices I made.
Because the future now the preseant is grey like a grave.
I still dream of film and simpler days.
Like it was still ambitious
When I see trombones sliding and clarinets deciding
What reed made the sound of jazz.

All night I head inside rain water.
Getting back the women I failed.
My heavy jacket feels like stray cats.
Then A garbage can upon the street.
Becomes some other racoons ocean dream.
He opens the door in ring tailed underwear.
And forgets about the skunk waiting
Under the bushes ontop of spongy beardes of moss.
The business isnt worth the trouble
For me against the passion to find
Another way inside a house of plastic
Bins.
But mine is wooden and strong and Ill be able
To dry my arms and go another day
Of traveling through the pools
Of open water.
And singing here comes the rain again.
Let it fall again and forever until the streets
Dry in clouds of ambitious steam.

Bigfoots a jack ***
Strange
He pured us both
Whiskey.
We talked about darwin,
And Goodals new book.
But now  hes trying to **** me!
Vegitaraian?
We thought he did.
But now hes trying to **** me.
Its getting dark
I cant smell the cave anymore.
His brown face sounded like a
Blender.  
I was just another elk
With them I slept
Like white bones.

Why care about the coronglais (English Horns) music.
Of course the brass I speak of is woodwind.
Masters of sound are older then the Tux-
Edos choking boughtie on my white neck.
The pub next door never will hear opera
The way a glass of hard ale fills me.
All a reason to say hiphop is jazz.
The old lady with scotch breath doesnt show
Me how ice melts in her mouth like twelve octaves.
On the concert halls roof cellos fall off the gutters
Like drops of rain.  The rare wood burns the hobos
Metal warm fire  and we finally walk with purpose.

shes sleeping
And chrystal ssnow
Floats to rest like me.