And you dance a wet, hot exorcism.
That fiendish pianist taps those vertebral keys above your hips,
And you bounce and dip all wicked in your two-step.
The bone toned disc of the dark hours watches you gyrate and shake,
While that Jazz Man whispers a woeful benediction.
What was it that made you loose yourself to the Boogie Man Mister Maestro?
But you’ve long since traded wonderance for the witching
On the day he came drunk in consecration from the crossroads.
Sweet smells of cinnamon blushed from the oils of his feet,
And where he stepped were the melodic murmurs of light.
There’s ether in his song.
And you bump and grind, unaware of the venal fires of the morning son.
Forgetful of the dusk that made the moonshine possible.
Your blindness was chaste and you forsook it for comfort;
Ignorant to the toll to pay for the ballroom
Where the Jazz Man howls to the moon.
I’m still pretty rusty, and I I’m struggling to put my thoughts to paper. Hopefully this isn’t too vague. I like a good metaphor, but I admit that in practice I sometimes lose meaningfulness. But I’ll leave it to your interpretation. Critique me. Please… I’m a secret literary masochist.