FAKE JAZZ:

There’s a tanned guy in a beard & Timberland cap
pulled low over his eyes, grooving to the Jazz-a-mataz
cool vibes of the elevator jam discharging like fumes
from hidden holes in the departure lounge. His girlfriend
looks up, as if in prayer, from beneath a wide brimmed straw
& floral frock as he shuffles papers in his passport
keeping time with the monotone beat, the bounce-n-pop of
mellow smooth fat bodied guitars & lazy fake organs.
He bops-n-sways up to the check-in desk in three quarter
stone-washed & track shoes, head down, one shoulder dropped,
rolling to imagined cool as the idle tone of a dull-witted
saxophone pops a cheeky melody. Both him & the cheese horn
groove on down the pier & disappear into the plane which
grows a face & starts to grin & squat & sway in time with the
elevator jazz cloud hanging over the departure lounge.
Two hours of this music makes me ill, but the dance of the
tanned guy in the Timberland cap transformed bad cheese into
a kind’ve twisted performance art – that lifts us, takes us
out’ve ourselves.

(K)