The Dead Apple Trio And My Blues
Moody little jazz
Meets me in the bathroom as I linger,
Away from the table
Of the red dress and the pointed finger,
I stand leaning against the sink
As the boys pour in with the familiar stink
Of alcholic drink.
Troubadours and trumpet sonnets,
Smooth and amenable
Guage my perception of the
Narcissistic bride of tonight.
I sashay to the bar ahead
As the sauntering symbol slides my step
And order another scotch,
While the bitch smirks at me hard;
It's going to be a long night.
2 comments:
This is quite an interesting little scene you've painted here.
Ah, bits an pieces everywhere, Ames. Its like a broken mirror on a tiled floor; it just fucks with you, man.
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