a poem by Apryl Skies

A distinctively American spirit, flowing from 19th-century riverboats to 21st-century cities, hovers here invisibly — a mesmeric aura of music and natural gesture. Lynchian ghosts voluptuously cascade through a jazzy erotic mood.

 

That Whiskey Blue Sway

(for Herman Jackson)

Fingers fierce and fragile
dance the porcelain fire away,
setting ebony to ivory
against the white of evening lights…

Tonight, even the houseflies
have their sway and swagger,
ghosts will stride
with secrets placed pocket-deep
and everyone knows
where the whiskey flows–
Cigarette to flame,
fingertips to quiet lips,
a melody unbroken beneath
the veil of whispering…
She’s got that whiskey-blue sway

Across the ballroom
her eyes are invitations
She wears these blues
like a little black dress
Flowers peek
from the tuck of curls,
(all red and smiling)
hips set to boogie and bass,
a swing of taunt
against eyes and their flight

And tonight patterns emerge
from black and white
as an un-masked clown
sits dim in the corner,
chasing the madness to glow

The smoke and music fills,
unmoving in its sway;
unlost within the depths of corners,
we become poetry written
on cocktail napkins
and the rhythm that moves
the night to a crawling groove.

 

Apryl Skies © 2012

the poem at Edgar Allan Poet

 

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Posted by Tim Buck

 

 

 

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