Tag Archive: swing


Cuban Rhapsody (por una formosa Maria de Recife)

I

After una noche de amor

I wake up to a mourning

feeling blue but a sax sings

Dexter Gordonishly

and helps me to live again..

I swing into the sun Cuba is;

I want to close my eyes

and my heart too and

I want to die but a girl

crosses my ways and so

I live again-

I always keep

a paperback

of the Canto General

by Neruda with me.

You never can tell,

to quote Chuck Berry-

A new day is dawning soon enough,

II

“A las tierras sin nombres …”

in order to get back

to my childhood traumata

and telling the way it was

to my future and always

endlessly curious lovers, let me

sing to  the world and you

how I lost faith forever:

III

Soon I learned, sooner that I wished for,

how to Jazzify my sorrows

by buying booze and getting  dizzy,

and get drowned in it,

as sure as next rain comes,

the rain of tears of your lovers.

IV

Hey, please, hold a sec:

In the United States of

my unknown American daddy,

in these imagined states

of my fantasy I dream

up new anecdotal stuff

to satisfy and please

my needs

and for desires I

will turn to you now,

V

So, I was out the other day

hitting the streets of

unfulfillable desires,

tipsily cakewalking

to the next Whiskey bar

to meet my shaky fate.

VI

Apart from nice gestures

like bowing down and

falling on my knees

for you, my love,

let my tongue

dance sweetly

and allow me to swoon

over you, prettiest

brown-eyed girl

I ever have met.

VII

Why not get ecstatic,

running amok in my mind

ever so tenderly

fishing for your smiles.

So cries your clown and slave:

If you would just be so nice enough

to listen to my prayers!

Can you not or do you

not want to care about me?

VIII

I entice you with the blue funk

my heart spills out for you, only you

as far as this night goes. Can you ask for more?

As the candle-lights of our dalliance burn down,

I extend my farewells to you:

There are other needy girls

to be satisfied by me.

continuará /to be continued

—————————-

*give it a minute, but listen into it, please:

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(A-)Muse use (geule) me to please you, please

sophie bastian

“this play-date is officially over

you can call your mom

to pick you up in her

land rover …“

sophia bastian: juvenile blues

(thank you, soph 😉 )

[intro:]

swimming downtown

drowning the blackest

of blueses

in the darkest of boozes

I, like Ἰάσων in his quest for the χρυσόμαλλον δέρας, the ოქროს საწმისი.

I, like Jason in his quest for the  -as the Greeks put it –

: khrisómallon déras, or the Georgians: ókros satsmisi,

was looking for a cat

like if it was the golden fleece.

But

as much as I failed

You know I am going

to “”get” you

for whatever

nonsensical reasons,

as if life ever

was about sense.

So, let me tell you first

what happened so far:

I went out one night

tried to get something started*

but I failed

I had such  a good time*

but no:

no girl

called me back.

I wasn’t surprised.

But recently

they tell me

I am sexy

I see their tits

or what else they’re shaking

but I wanna bring home

my point

about the decline

of the Holy

Roman Empire

in 1806.

Isn’t, I said, it strange

that

and then I took a gulp,

that someone

suffering from

perianal thrombosis

would decide about

the fall of Empires

fat-bellied lives

existed upon?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

χρυσόμαλλον δέρας,

ოქროს საწმისი

+ Macy Gray’s lyrics of course

 

( 😉 more later. must run now)


Dziękuję bardzo, Caroline, for Lifting me up.

cheers
serge

Sing With Me ( a swing talk suite)

to let go

I have changed.

I have changed
my most preferred
four letter word
from love to hope.

Some kinds of love
are elusive. These 
are the most intense
for some time. But
they don’t prevail.
They lack stamina.
Those that are subtly latent,
those that evoke 
understanding smiles
after years of 
supposed intentional neglect
are those that persist
until …
hope outdated itself.

To cope with losses
I made up a mantra
for myself: Let go!

I still hope,
outdating myself,
for love again.

serge in (love) hope

Suddenly the phone rang
on that night past christmas,
the presumed festival
of love, that had been
so totally without it.
On that cold night
she would call me
reminding me of
all the warmth she
had been, she had
given to me. No
time for regrets: too
close instantly after
one long year of
silence and confusion.
I was too puzzled
to make sense
to her, of her, 
to and of myself, of it,
but later she said that
I am the only one
she can talk to.
She simply knows how to
get and take me
like no other does.
Love is unfair
to me.

call it vanilla

Vanilla is my Blues

What I already wrote

and what I am going to

will unavoidably hurt

some precious one.

I tried to find

a way around

but find none.

Yet.

Talked to a friend; they said:

Don’t you ever meet her again. Let go.

Look for someone else.

I complied and lied at very same moment because

next thing I did after SHE left was this:

I’m breakin my oaths first second I see you.

So far for honesty.

Towards my friends

who’d advised me better.

I’m the king of my life for sure.

Yeah, I am a winner, no doubts.

Winning what exactly?

Mainly most of the same

that already almost killed

me yesterday? I’m doing good.

I hate my friends

when they act like

I make no sense,

when I’m perfectly fine

creating a new mess

all by myself and yeah,

of course; by her too.

They just don’t get it.

They don’t see our bonds

or are jaded enough

for me. They simply refuse to

want to see where

I am heading at.

They tell me to take a walk

so I take one at night

with no one watching

and I think, which is

not prescribed for

me in my state.

By far too much

reminiscing. No,

wrong track. Start again!

Which I do. „I understand you“,

so she. Telling me that,

when I don’t get myself.

Under those mounds of roses

I started to loose myself completely

and I reappeared as someone

I’d never seen before. A new

me, I was suddenly still there.

I put the blame on me,

the blame that I’m unloveable

unless you are a goddess.

the benzes

I’m on my way home, lilting this:

walking an icy path.
But then suddenly people appear in front of me.
It’s midnight: pitch dark. No visible moon up.
Only the snow on the lawns gives sparse light.
And when I am just two steps away from them,
they, those passers-by appearing from nowhere,
suddenly fall down and drop dead.

I feel so confused I call a cab to get out of this.

But I missed it.

Without human mirrors
I cannot see me.

So he, the cab man, hands over the reefer
he smoked for me
and I get talkative (miracle, miracle!)
in order to procrastinate because
tonight, after meeting her, Suzie in coconut balm , I feel
even more lonely than usual.

Don’t you ask me, how I made it home
because I simply blacked out in the middle of my walk.

And how could I miss the cab,
but smoke pot with the driver?

There are mysteries to this
and they lurk just around the corner.

So me in front of my door, looking for the right key
and just in a finger-snap
around the corner rolls another Benz
towards me. His intentions evil.

A Stephen King machine.
I now distrust Mercedesses.

They are sexy but can be lethal.

augustus I

Me in the eighth month of my life

longing for brown-eyed brunettes
but kissing green-eyed street princesses
instead, I kill time residing in a street café,
voyeurish me.

In my life’s august I check out life
or more precisely: its female aspects.

My self is maelstroming into funky limbo
and I watch that too.
I have grown around a black hole.*
Never imagined. Heading violently
towards sleep eternal I still learn.

New stuff.

Good for …

?

Not a prelude to not a fugue

for a fine friend of mine

Calculating my return of investment
on the stock exchange of sweetest taboos.
I can proclaim (if not solemnly),
that I have been treated fairly so far.

Summing up the beatings I
may have deserved by my lovers
I still do well. (And the subconscious
sub in me was even delighted).

My heart has found a voice now:
It sings like Helen Folasade Adu
smoothing our messed-up Jazz
by turning it into
danceable delights.

It can be no crime to be
a hopeless lover of lovers of mine.
I don’t mind practising
Don Quichotteries
should there be a need to
make me please you

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