Chess in the afternoon sun. Jazz floats over the silky couch. Backs ache, while hearts break. Bishop takes knight, and France falls again.
The masks are all broken under the cerulean blue skies, while she eats berries, and smiles in her pink polka dot dress. The pawns are all smug, and queenie's on the rag. Italy surrenders, and from the grave, Charlie Parker still hammers home those soft amber notes. I can smell her heat, and I think they play Jazz in hell.
Curling tendrils of tobacco haze engulf the tiny space, hang like ringlets over shots of whiskey and mugs of warm beer. A solitary dancer moves, bracelets janglin’ and eyes heavy with kohl, captures old men in mid drink as her hips sway to Nina Simone. Her bronze skin glistens with the hot stares of the audience; she soaks it in, twirls on bare feet in perfect time as the high priestess of soul bewitches us with heavy grooves. I close my eyes, tap fingers against glass, whisper Nina’s words into the smoke and breathe them back in again. This is jazz, I think out loud, this is pure unadulterated heat.