Shining threads

Shining threads

Friday, 3 August 2012


Jazz sounds, jazz rolls round. High five. Hands meet through smokey climes. We climbed here, through the rubble, through the struggle of our lives and now the music sounds us, the music becomes us and we move to the jazz beats.

She's got new shoes - sometimes new shoes is all it takes and a look in the mirror that meets approval and a confident burst on the streets. Flip-flop through puddles, she sees the dying sun reflected in the pavement pool and remembers to check her watch to see if she is on line, on time, her mind already moving to the jazz beats, though she's not quite there yet.

The town heaves, the town breathes, the town leaves its inhabitants gasping. The old man's raspy voice speaks of late-night smokes and clandestine tokes and a scene that never lets you go. He's still moving to the jazz-beats and the jazz-beats have got him.

She passes the old man and he tips his hat to her grace - the new generation take up the race but his mind's still quivering from the shock of the jazz-beats that got him moving all that time ago. She doesn't stop, perhaps she can't stop but she pays him a smile that makes him happy - the kind of smile that makes the whole day worthwhile - the kind of smile that he used to make on the dance-floor, pacing out rhythms to the jazz-beats.

Soon the silver-moon has taken over from the red-ember sun and the darkness consolidates its grip on the town, only fought off by a few neon-lights, infantry in a night-long war, who enter the battle-field each sunset and retreat as the natural light emerges in the morning mayhem, revealing the discarded junk of those who moved to the jazz-beats, the winners and losers, the lovers and survivors of the jazz-beat happenings.

Every so often she is distracted by the hungry call of men, trying their luck, thinking of the jazz-beats and who they can dance with or maybe thinking of the jazz-beats they can bang out in their bedroom, but she is not for stopping and paces onwards, diving into the electric shade of the night's numbness. All she can think of are the jazz-beats, the heat she loves to feel as she rides the waves of the dancefloor and the seat by the bar where she sips her drink, in between jazz-beat shuffles.

Now she's close she checks herself - a moving composure which has kept steady so far, a smooth chaos which pulses to the sound of jazz-beats, always in her head - the dancefloor agenda has gone deep and continues in every circumstance. She can hear strains of jazz-beats as the door is opened and closed by the doorman letting the next few in. Those jazz-beats she lives for - those jazz-beats that are her destination and desire and her everything. She feels her flutter-heart-flutter and nothing could stop her in the whole world. Steps towards the jazz-beats, she's now entered the field of the club and her chemistry is in full-flush.

The jazz-beat procession swirls, through the music, through the people, through the building, down the stairs, through the door, onto the doorman, and onto her. It's got her. The jazz-beats always win. And when she's in, so does she.

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