Thursday, January 2, 2014

The Mohawk Club - a little work of fiction by fly

The following is an extension of some thoughts inspired by John Sinclair and  his poems set in New York, that describe and project the early Be-Bop pioneers like Bird, Dizzy and Monk into life.

I soon found myself mixing a little Native American Indian furniture into a fictional club scene, when suddenly, without warning, the building started shaking and tearing itself loose from its foundation. x steve fly.


The Mohawk Club

to gothamsterado
through city clouds moonlight
streaking down

solid rays billy bounce
off the puddle
street amber
leopard lightning

shattered glass
that whisky moon
eclipsed by rolling
  toasting the eye
head lamp &
reefer burn outside 
the club doors
vipers blow & hiss
steam seeping out
from the stage

a rocket launch site
up up-town-up
escape into air

buildings nearby
sway loose from
footing notes
  & rise up 
with gargoyles
breaking loose with
  the music blasting away 
from grey concrete

sprouting feathers
bright green &
toucan yellow
big chief salmon & gold

evaporating into
dark skies
tiny pieces of the city
pulled away in the night

a gravity bop bomb
inside the club
under hazy
lemon light
the honey-bop elixir drips
juss’ keep on jumpin

cats do the leap frog
peeps jiggin’ &
moving so hard
the floor boards
wriggle loose

doors & windows
pop in their
frames while musical
flames lap ears of
dancing cats

the club a
living museum
exotic objects
resonate to sounds
the players play
a seemingly ad-hoc
collection of artefacts
from africa india asia
the Caribbean
the americas
& Indonesia
crammed into one room
a cherry red mardi gras
indian head dress &
five pots of Robert Johnson
snake oil
perch on the shelf

several rusty
saxophones hooked
over water pipes cling
like docked space craft

a bunged-up
silver tuba
hunches behind the bar
a mirrored ice bucket

two trombones
hang from sharp
shark teeth

trumpets & clarinets
double as flower vases
on turntable platters

a native indian
looms large
like jupiter behind
the stage
beads & wires hang from
all quarters snaking the
original sheet music
portraits of jazz masters
handmade flyers
 grip the walls
behind smoke tinted
glass in various frames 
dusty books
embroidered with more shells
& reeds
crocodile teeth piano
ostrich feathers
& white buffalo hair
the smell of reefer 

to the left a
double bass pulses
like a whale heart
spitting out notes
from its huge
bass-clef gut

the horse chestnut
upright has viper tooth
tuning fangs
atop its snake

a hybrid trap kit
sits center stage
like an insect

hi hat stand from old
grey gun barrels
hi-hat cymbals from turkey
crash china symbols
viper head sticks
& mohawk punk

to the right
of stage the turn
tables sit atop
a grand piano
a raven
headed diamond
tipped stylus looks down at
the record about to 
peck the groove

records nailed to walls
  & nicotine patches
where others once hung

beside turntables
a small glockenspiel
with silver bullet keys
a microphone
stand of gun parts
mixed with
three indian tomahawks
stands ready fro the chief
the microphone is
a shaved viper head
its tail wiggling off
toward the sound
--Steve Fly
08/13 Amsterdam,
Edited 13/12/13.

Mohawk - John Sinclair coming March 24th, 2014


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thank you for reading, and for your feedback i bow