Jazz - Man

Sages gather in the bar of no tomorrow,

To meet the sacred sound beyond our sorrow,

Of voodoo jazz and magic musk

That breathe bright light into the dusk

With molten pearls of music notes;

The sorcery of galaxies, where empty faces float,

And the man of jazz lets all he has,

Radiate into the liquid air,

In melodic currents, and shamanic stare,   

To spread a sacred aura through the room;

In sounds that sow their own cocoon;

Enchanting sailors from such distant lands,

That they may leave themselves behind, and understand,

Just what they had arrived here for;

And that identities are left right at the door.

Dimly lit booths, with fragrances of ruby red,

As sailors sift into the cabins, where they’re led

Into royal armchairs of savannah plush;

Here our hearts are hypnotised into a rush

As the jazz man king takes to the ring,

And sees what vibrancy, our life may bring

Upon this ship of never land,

Conjured In an image of the master band

That rides the river of its timeless notes;

And pours into the doors of where our conscience wrote

That the jazzman king does always sing,

And we have never really been elsewhere,

The illusions of our dreamscape care,

Are swept into the sounds that everywhere

Resound and confound the boundaries

We wound, spinning round our little selves;

But now they hear another sound

And only he knows where they’re bound,

Because he’ll never ever ever let it go,

He’ll mesmerise the mic,

And let the river flow.