Hyena Stomp
Underground there's a swell of sound eighty years old and rich with a velvet tongue. Double bass slinks a rhythm that breathes in the hips of waiters and waitresses. Among them it's a wailing trumpet that fills every crease of every smile, every sash and suit with life. As for me, my heart is rotting in my chest. Every time the maggots twist i can feel them, and it brings on the memory of fishing as a child. I can smell them, taste them under my tongue, and it's just sun on the water. Maggots coloured blue, and green, and bronze...
Alexandra is swaying in the middle of the stage but she doesn't sing just yet. Crazy Louisianan half breed, she's feeling each note tangled to the tips of her flaming hair. Pursed lips and spit pressed to her, trumpet whispering and spilling out everything in turns. Her eyes are the same shade as the green in the brass. Her perfect nails the exact same gleam as her dress. I stare sidelong and it's hard, sometimes, remembering to blink. Paper thin and dry the motion just provides a metronome to the numbing itch, sliding in and out of time with the hush-skip of the drums. Right now I keep them mostly closed as one less thing to think of. Sometimes I look out on the crowd, but most-times I gaze at her.
She isn't even lit and she shines. Every tiny table candle swarms in reflection about and within her wavering figure, just like lightningbugs. My fingers are warm from the strings beneath them, the constellation of fire, the low chatter, the softening haze of cigarette smoke. The music grinds heat into my tinder bones, every languid fan of her lashes makes it flare. This is the only time I'm warm at all- just memory and passion on the air. A faint taste of the long lost echoes to join the decay. In a quiet moment, the trumpeter wetting his lips, Alexandra nods and the lights come up slow. I'm caught out, off balance, but she sings as if to herself. We array sound around her, coming up together as threads in the weave. Her voice is bronze and deep and wide and only hints at longing. Honey from a thousand bees and just one sting. She starts off scaling and gathers lazy words on the way, gathers pace, and we follow. Cadence, melody, it all falls apart for her as the drum skips, the trumpet whispers, wails, in and out of time. Off to one side I swing my bow and another strain of death echoes to the night in crafted dischord. Her impossible voice fits to our music as if they were lovers. My violin howls protest, aching and screeching to her arcane time. My chest pulses. My fingers blur. A hundred years old we all dance to her tortuous tune. Infected, over-run, defeated.
Out back, in the dressing room, our midnight cases are stood upright like monuments. Each side carries a list, stenciled black on black, places and dates that end with London, 2005, and start with New Orleans, 1923.
Alexandra is swaying in the middle of the stage but she doesn't sing just yet. Crazy Louisianan half breed, she's feeling each note tangled to the tips of her flaming hair. Pursed lips and spit pressed to her, trumpet whispering and spilling out everything in turns. Her eyes are the same shade as the green in the brass. Her perfect nails the exact same gleam as her dress. I stare sidelong and it's hard, sometimes, remembering to blink. Paper thin and dry the motion just provides a metronome to the numbing itch, sliding in and out of time with the hush-skip of the drums. Right now I keep them mostly closed as one less thing to think of. Sometimes I look out on the crowd, but most-times I gaze at her.
She isn't even lit and she shines. Every tiny table candle swarms in reflection about and within her wavering figure, just like lightningbugs. My fingers are warm from the strings beneath them, the constellation of fire, the low chatter, the softening haze of cigarette smoke. The music grinds heat into my tinder bones, every languid fan of her lashes makes it flare. This is the only time I'm warm at all- just memory and passion on the air. A faint taste of the long lost echoes to join the decay. In a quiet moment, the trumpeter wetting his lips, Alexandra nods and the lights come up slow. I'm caught out, off balance, but she sings as if to herself. We array sound around her, coming up together as threads in the weave. Her voice is bronze and deep and wide and only hints at longing. Honey from a thousand bees and just one sting. She starts off scaling and gathers lazy words on the way, gathers pace, and we follow. Cadence, melody, it all falls apart for her as the drum skips, the trumpet whispers, wails, in and out of time. Off to one side I swing my bow and another strain of death echoes to the night in crafted dischord. Her impossible voice fits to our music as if they were lovers. My violin howls protest, aching and screeching to her arcane time. My chest pulses. My fingers blur. A hundred years old we all dance to her tortuous tune. Infected, over-run, defeated.
Out back, in the dressing room, our midnight cases are stood upright like monuments. Each side carries a list, stenciled black on black, places and dates that end with London, 2005, and start with New Orleans, 1923.