The instrument has a swing to it, but underneath the lilting rhythms it plays there is a sadness only music could conceal under such bombastic noise.
It’s the sadness of walking the streets in that blue late night air. It’s in the gazes one could shoot down alleys, knowing in one of them a addict is using up the last of their stash.
The tune of that brass curve will follow you round the bends of concrete and bitchumen, fluctuating it’s strength like the wind that sheers off your chipped shoulder on a gusty day.
It’ll saunter alone, drifting through the clouds as you ask a God on high to stop you from the terror you’re about to unleash.
One could sit transfixed in it’s melody passing off everyone, and all else, to pluck that sadness from it.
It sounds so beautiful when you’ve done no wrong.
Yet will make you clutch for the bottle while you lay in the clutches of regret.
It will make you scream for salvation from a nail bed of your own making, or cause you to relish a beating.
It brings those with hollow halos down to swig from lucifers chalice.
It makes turning the cheek possibl and will even call some to noir murder. It wil touch the fire in your belly till you bellow forth your true self or a flame so violent it will shred you raw.
At which point ‘where do you turn?’ With such beautiful self hatred in your palms ‘where do you turn?’
Do you project to the world a softly stoic rapsady? Or do you trumpet an inferno of rage, a jet fuel candle soul to leave a memory tarnished with no one.
With no one around who would care to correct the reputation of an arsonist.
For you see these are no vocals from an unknown sorrow, these floating clouds, these dingy alleys, these terrors or that fire.
This is not lucifers chalice, this is blue rosey Jazz.
This is my soul screaming at itself as the sax screeches at me
This is my holy horned self loathing.