How It Swings

In my blue dreams I remember the room: with your guitar in its case, the drums polished on display, music theory printed and stashed in black folders; yet strings I never saw, harmony found uncomposed Only the drums, but quite vaguely.

Faggot, faker, two-faced imposter What ugly lies man sings behind shadowed eyes!

Sorry

When you hid behind our closed door I pressed my head to wood and I heard the weeping chords, the gentle plucking, the brass and leather banged well and lungs wailing. Your voice cracked, and still the beat carried whatever the tenor made weaker. On my side were the stains and the shame though you said nothing when I stumbled in. You only smiled when I found pain. Never mind, though, never mind.

I remember the ember that sparks the tinder upon our well-deserved pyre for ever is the lesser who neglects what needs reflection so shudder and shiver you little bastard. The room will yet light, much to your fright but to our welcome delight. What will the music be - fury? Yes, fury, fiery, for all to see.

But never mind all that. Some days I miss the music, though I always dread to face it. For shame the flame went untamed, the still song lain still, forever more; that is, until the next time I hear the war drums in my sleep and like tribal beats calling command, I might find old two-face in my heart’s darkest deep. As always I yet wonder which side I’ll flip. Might I come to rue or come to ruin?

But never mind. Never mind.