It could be Night in Tunisia running like pigmented paint and madder on cold flint, mixing up the mediums ground into a gentle purl. The torch-lit quintet could trade fours and copper licks on stage, a sepia chasm or niche where projected lights and shadows stain smoky air and wood. Flickering reds and yellows be-bop, twist, and burn. A conical brass body becomes splintered bone, wails a primitive voice shrieking from lips to reed. Quasi-blues in double time conjure up the swing once buried beneath melancholy rubble. Fluid combos awaken the step risen notes swirl and dive, cut grooves in the damp earth where magma is music and the impresario never sleeps.
Reason for writing:
Jazz and a nice beer buzz.....
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Mary Katherine--Cancer.