in the dread vast and middle of the night?

soft marsh light. in the soft marsh light. japanese double camellias swam in the soft marsh light. all around was a tropical forest, red breasted, green tailed parrots fluttered from liana to liana, as african drums soared to their own precise rhythm, hup, boom, hup, boom, boom, go, go, go! swarthy horns engraved with curious leopards were blown by natives, and under the abstract sky a man stood before the mic, the salamander-conjurer, the lizard-king, rhyming to the drums in broken crescendos and intimations of low-fi deftness as the players played low, and the brush swayed and bobbed and blew in the? wind. describe anton newcombe. allude to the crowd. spin your bracelet. quick, say something.

she looks pretty.

you know her.

he starts the first chorus.

everything’s lining up, everybody’s mind crazier and knowing, rehashing speeding nostalgia, places, people, yeah, yeah, bottles clanking, whiskey spitting to the stars, the feeling of free idea, infinite in the mad crowd, roaring and rocking now, he grabs a horn, kicking to the sudden jolt of the sound, sweat sweating, the drummers pick up the chorus, “slow, sway, slaying, murder in the romance of your art – understood – clooossse your eeeyes,” two girls stumbled in, starry tattooed smiles and clapping, non-committal junkies, ghostly in the fiendish light, as he picks the horn up high, braying a golden blast like a long, high laugh in the air, quivering now and holding it, entranced, dueling with the crowd, high and wide and blowing his top sending messages around the world and to john twenty times, back and forth, angling and careening, crooning when someone let out a foghorn, “whoooo!” heard straight to algiers, and the singer jumped off the bandstand stood holding the horn, drooping to the side in his hand, looking at all the people, slowly staring as the music died, gazing somewhere far with the saddest expression as if to say, “what are we doing in this dusty, ramshackle world?” someone gave him a beer and he walked slowly over to sit off to a side table as the great crowd clapped and cheered and he sat by himself holding his head low in his hands, moving back and forth.

last chance to describe anton newcombe.

(a cheap ripoff, i agree, but let's make do.)

too late.

white roses in a red puddle.