Tuesday, December 14, 2010

jetlag and writer's block...

The supercharged drummer taps away furiously. An exotic explosion of tribal Moroccan beats reverberates around the room, moving bodies in seats and feet in empty spaces. Every now and then during one of these solo confessions the Trumpet Player crouches down on one knee. Cradling his instrument like a lover in his arms he looks down at her with a glimmer of contempt while nodding his head in protest to the strong, bird wing flutter of the bongo drums. He takes another quick sip of his pink alcoholic mess of a drink and wipes sweat from his heavy brow. His glassy eyes flash a cold razorblade gaze through the soft naked flesh in front of him. This executor raises his brass seductress back to his lips and breathes into her, bringing the world back to life. In this planned chaos, a complex fusion of deliberate composition and improvised verset resounds through the crowded floor space embedding its dynamic vibrations in every open ear. Complete, in the clamour of the night speckled, spirit soaked room.

That's all I have so far...

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