Here we have knives
here we have a garlic clove
pass it on to the next target and mentor
perhaps it is turnip's turn
possibly a dreamcoat
I haven't eaten you in weeks
this last decibel from my banjo-guitar is joyous and ruggedly pleasing to my pear ears!
and I don't feed on mortals
steep is an overshot
this cliff will knock you backwards, refreshingly
teetering on the edges of my fingernails
where aren't you headed, anyway?
Walking and pondering along
questing to the hindering goal
march march for words
tell me a heart
tear out apart
get to the ice creed! This will be cruel
cautious yellow fondling off-white egg beater
he sneezed for me, please
thanks, I mean!
troubadours dance lightly in my mind
feet, feet, focus on their feet
that's a loudest saxophone. that' s a loudest horn
heavens no I don't smoke cigarettes!
We do this for a living.
The trees expand with my eyes, here in
this solace, this international scene.
Pigeons, rowboats, the water and a
solitary swan – each a gift or a
gift’s ribbon. Snaking off into the air,
a balloon is cradled by the bustle
of the restless London-summer’s landscape.
The ordinary habitation is
so releasing: a miniature smile
scooters by; slow sweeps of saxophone
notes clear the sky; two bodies blended
in shin-height grass release a single sigh.
Abstractions felt but failed by my speech
take root here. Like semi-singed threads or strings,
they slide upward from the dirt to grow leaves.
It begins brusquely in the dark, a hoary noise,
a tune which all the cats in town enjoy.
Yes, they stare at the stage for a sparkle of gold
to come forth from the shadows, the sound will take hold.
Rippling through the room, a devilish groan
rises, spirals high from an aged baritone.
The other musicians join in this depressing affair
and the men in their fifties are still fused to their chairs.
The sulky cello, whining trumpet slither into the mix,
the sadness fills the ears of several dozen beatniks.
Then with no caution comes a madcap flow
of music from the star performer, frantic yet mellow.
And it slows, then picks up, goes on for what feels like a year,
this rugged Jazz, no words but my, damn sincere.
Like something so eccentric that can't be left alone,
everyone captivated by the golden saxophone.
In the beginning were the chords
Seven days of rataplan;
The kind of week that John Lee Hooker
Dreamed in blue and 4/4 time,
Newport on a 60's binge.
Palinodes on saxophone lips
Refusing to look back on Memphis,
Chilling out to Tupelo time.
Spin him a lyric Lady Music,
Camber a tone to smoky heights.
Walk the blues round Jim Beam shores
And drown them in N'awlins nights.
Riff the waves to inner ear
Like satin on the low strings:
From frets on legacies
Feel the descant fade away.
Take a look in the mirror,
Is this problem getting any clearer?
You're a shell of a woman,
Scars they decorate your arms,
And that bracelet with 3 little charms,
That one your daddy gave you for christmas,
Right before he left us,
He left for the country, wanted to get away from the high life,
Go back to where things were simple,
Its your only connection to him
And you never take it off,
You say you never will,
And there are parts of me that believe you,
The three little charms,
Ballet slippers, for when you took tap,
Saxophone, for the side of you that loved jazz,
And a heart, to let you know he loved you from the start,
He'll love you until the end, even if you never see him again.
Daddy isn't doing so great,
Lost nearly half his weight,
And as he lay on his death bed,
All he wants to do,
Is see his little girl again,
He takes his last breath, screaming your name,
Now all you want to do is go back in time, and warn him,
Warn him of what is to come, tell him to stay with you until his final day,
And ofcourse, he wouldn't listen,
But atleast you would have been able to try,
Try and save your dads life.