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Lady Blues Jackie Amos / Blog

POET LADY BLUES SPEAKS THE SOLITUDE OF JAZZ

Solitude Of Jazz In this misty night, I take another direction into the midnight blues, and the off sets of the light makes me undress the cotton club and its heights, so if I sit for a moment to figure out, what image shall possess my mike in its own delight, midnight blues that wear its on fragrance of love, and the mighty horns that suffice the skies, and the flowers that gives of the spirits that once pledge through the night, listen and you shall hear the voice of the past, Mama I want to sing, Bessie smith begins to grown At Last my love has come along, and the sweet smell of Lena Horn play that jazz, and the mountain to freedom when she walked through the front door, I sit with my horn, blowing to the morning dawn, emphasize with the sound of black Jazz, I herd a hum above the moon, I played the script until my fingers bleed, oh the sway of the jazz, completely took me to another side of town, Droning a drowsy syncopated note, tapping my feet to the beat, a bottle of bud, and figured indulge, but their was no interaction in my solitude of jazz, Louie Armstrong, don’t blame me if I skip a beat Billy sing the blues, high hill shoes, flower that Dazzle as she sings the blues, I crossed the river when the monk took a glitter, and the horn blue without it touching my lip. I bend down and the crowd began to cry, play that horn until the air is no more, the location that I stood before the crowd, and the blue lights were flickering as I cry out loud, Louie play that shit, play that shit, as he swayed to the left I swayed to the right… The songs of the weary blues, begin To sing its own words, down at the lounge The blue tent house, and the old lantern And the shuffle of the night, Gold chains, pen strip garments that lingered To the floor, high top pants, and glitter tops, As the people dance the camel walk, down at the cotton club, where down in the mist of Harlem light. My man don’t love me no more, Sarah Von with the flower in her hair, decked out with her divas dress, Smoked in a furnace, as the jazz band play, do that shit , do that shit, cried out all night. I blew my horn and tap my feet, the sound of jazz Need not my lips, as the night went on, the spirit of jazz did its own thing. Noumi Collectives

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