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Click hereI thought you were jazz,
a nicotine stained snap
tripping over theme and thesis
in back alleys. A sharp cat
in blue glasses, licking syntax
from fingertips. Pitch black
and blood red on the inside,
cased in dark oak and
Chicago style brass.
I thought you were jazz,
but you weren't jazz.
I thought you were dub,
bare feet, swinging hips,
black curls stuck on zenith
sweaty skin and lips parted
in breathless grin. Ganja
and rum, earth and hibiscus.
Happily lost in ringing filter feed
and clinging to each vibrant
molecule in a mud floor club.
I thought you were dub,
but you weren't dub.
I thought you were punk,
a rusty nail downing
straight fire with a side order
of diesel and mayhem,
Going for pure amps and dirty
transmission on three cords or less.
Fuck for the song of it, sing
for the fuck of it, face morning
afters denying or drunk.
I thought you were punk,
but you weren't punk.
I thought you were house,
razor edge precision, liquid
nitrogen cool, with a
skeleton key beat tuned to the
human spine. Berlin, Rotterdam,
wax and vanity. Deep blue makeup,
melted in strobes, stabs and concrete,
trickling with sweat down your
silver swirly blouse.
I thought you were house,
but you weren't house.
and you've confirmed my thought.
Perfect pitch.