Jazz - The Son of Blues

Foxes dance on Deal Porters Way,

dizzy from Needleman’s narcotics,

eclipsed by the moon.

Tortured by twisting ivy,

drowning in pre-disposed purple Wisteria,

Plato’s curse.

Art Pepper simmering in saxophonist steam,

heralding heroin,

screaming that ‘You’d Be So Good to Come Home To’.

She,

blinded by Rahsaan Roland Kirk

and the sunset solo glaring

into the cork encompassed kitchen,

Sang.

Sang into the horizon of home

high on hibiscus.

Vomiting as though a vocalist

insisting how ‘It Could Happen to You’,

whilst blowing out life’s flame,

like that of an eyelash from the corpsed end of your thumb –

gasping until the breath has strayed

and the eyelash remains like after the last blow on the trumpet

at Jacks.

Denver.  

His body became his captor.

Her house becoming her dungeon –

permitting glimpses of light;

fictitious smiles.

Meanwhile,

‘Blues for Yolande’ cry from plantations miles away –

composing the steps of solitude slaves into a steady pulse

of castaways 

running a meter.

Trapped and tranquilised.

Caught in a suspended state of Big Bill Broonzy’s city sounds:

Salvia;

Skag;

Skunk;

Smilies;

Snow;

Speed;

Superman;

Syrup;

And for breakfast,

Special K.

The protein type.

With nuts, clusters and

Sildenafil soaked seeds.

Serenity on a starry night in Cincinnati

or Streatham?

A simple story for the lady

living on Surrey Water.

London.  

Alone since September 2001.

September 11th.

Two worlds shackled by sadness,

mourning in jazz;

the son of blues.