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***

unabashed next door the sound of a
gramophone at 3am, playing ‘Bird’
jazz, that chaotic seamless thread,
the bedlam of blues tunes in rewind
this old man had style, now he has
no voice box, cancer another history
croaky electronic crackles, his sound

***
©2004-2009 ~betweensmiles
:iconbetweensmiles:

Author's Comments

a poem that moves on from 'city observations'

this time its the story told about the night before when the old man played his records too loud

Comments


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:iconsalted-eyes:
Great pose. :D So lovely baby. Really cute...I love it!! :aww:
:iconbetweensmiles:
thanks, glad i don't have a kid to be honest ;)

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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
:iconventurus:
thought the first verse was so-so, and the second excellent. i'd ditch verse one, and retitle 'Night-time Blues', or something like that.

--
Fuselit
Mimesis
:iconbetweensmiles:
thanks for the help i wasn't sure it worked as it was, now i'm sure, thanks for the help

any futher suggestions, any places that were left unexplored via the old man

oh and have you noticed i used your style :D

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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
:iconbetweensmiles:
yay for no kids :wave:

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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
:iconbetweensmiles:
YAY :party:

"i'm a real poet at last, gone are my days of being a wooden poet, i'm a real poet"

well perhaps given more time i will perfect this further :D

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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
:iconanotherbleedingrose:
I love the idea of his voice being sounded out by an old Record scratchy and distorted. His voice is nothing more than a memory playing over and over too loud for the world to even take notice. It's a beautiful thought, if we could all just leave our true voice and come to the reality of music living as our words....great man.

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++[link]
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"we all have a choice. It's not about the war over seas my friends. It's the war in our hearts!"

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November 3, 2004
410 bytes
96.2 KB
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