IN A SENTIMENTAL MOOD by Christian Wallace
First breath of saxophone
sighs sex on top of velvet night,
a slow dance on piano keys:
bones beneath skin
tell the music where to begin
Now the notes hit like powder
until the stars are Van Gogh’s
bursting brush-strokes,
hay-yellow like
the blonde sucking with ruby lips
the end of a cigarette,
happy to oblige her,
if either were real
Somewhere a bass line thumps down street
like Coltrane in ‘63
and shrugs wool blazer over shoulder
and heads into fingers of smoke
gripping the dark between sweating glasses of bourbon and tapping black shoes
Ben Webster is taking a solo
and rain wets a New York sidewalk
where men still walk inside
trench-coats and pale pink
umbrellas protect the make-up
from streaking down
the pretty gal’s face
coming towards me
in the drizzle
The world is jazz,
the world is jazz,
a perfect grey
//ww
sighs sex on top of velvet night,
a slow dance on piano keys:
bones beneath skin
tell the music where to begin
Now the notes hit like powder
until the stars are Van Gogh’s
bursting brush-strokes,
hay-yellow like
the blonde sucking with ruby lips
the end of a cigarette,
happy to oblige her,
if either were real
Somewhere a bass line thumps down street
like Coltrane in ‘63
and shrugs wool blazer over shoulder
and heads into fingers of smoke
gripping the dark between sweating glasses of bourbon and tapping black shoes
Ben Webster is taking a solo
and rain wets a New York sidewalk
where men still walk inside
trench-coats and pale pink
umbrellas protect the make-up
from streaking down
the pretty gal’s face
coming towards me
in the drizzle
The world is jazz,
the world is jazz,
a perfect grey
//ww