Here’s a story told in an abstract poetic form. The Flatted Fifth is the best place to experience authentic blues – at least in my mind. In person, maybe not so much.
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The Flatted Fifth
She wiped bar-closed Flatted Fifth scarred bar under a buzzing light-bare bulb
Feeling alone unpacked stacked bottles clear to colored in tempestuous glass
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Dark fed dark stage centered under unlit spot he liking the view
Women’s work better watched with sweat attached
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He satisfied watched in silent darkness until
Over-stepped over crack-creaked boards with underfoot moaned
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She jerk-startled tattooed forearm slammed against flood switch of lights
Four blind eyes met shocked
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Hello with band Glancing Head Blow oh I know them all except you
She warmed to upstaged apologetics until she approached comfortable
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Oh play later tonight now back to work stacked and unpacked
It’s already later tonight time to play laughed
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Offers of help initial rejections became acceptable mutual decision
Two as one unclothed bare bulb swung above tattooed four arms
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Stage present figure fully loaded well-lit under center spot aimed
Cross-haired moving beast waited for final eye contact she understanding nodded
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Do it now pulled one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve
Thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen click click click click click
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Crime of passionate blues hits not coming sometimes forced
On bar stool await behind-bar retirement plan with no glancing head blow
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From broken hearts authenticity crafts
Fake years of false hurts become first real blues
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We’ve much to write you and I something said
Half-appeared bullet-holed Muse sat full-lapped
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Interlocked ten fingers loved a trapped pen
He and she dragged across paper made sounds
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First bars pour from colorful tempestuous glass
The Flatted Fifth buzzed neon-flickered to afterlife
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Open for business with sirens and laughter
Colorful tempestuous glass-breaking laughter
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