Articles » Jazz Poetry
A bored audience. I hate them, I need them. Not even pulling Holly on stage for an impromptu reunion stirs them from their indifference. Ah, I hate begging you, murder the night, please don't let me see it. Dispose of the body, kiss me. It's all blue blacks, the color of a fruit's skin. Kill the night in a row of bottles, one long song. I briefly touch upon the infinite, she is at the mic, in this way we are together again in a way that matters, a way which is honest yet does not involve appetite. We provide a soundtrack for people doing their own scenes from movies no one will ever see. A decade of clubs, was I wrong, it was not fame which has come, but dawn. I look down at the horn, it has just enough breath left to murmur "take me home. Tomorrow, me, the music, Lazarus-like, we will be back on stage.
voice / vocals
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Wayne is a California based author
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