Shriveled Jazz Poem by Luke J. Holt
Shriveled Jazz
crying under bursts of fennel horns
curled under a black grand
with the dullest pencil in New York
...in my teeth
color of damp flour
im dragging the root of a storm of algebra
how satin bells raise
and murder the refrain with a nervous herd of dazzling tri-tones
((like voices mixed in one speech))
a grey-blue baby of fever
lifting a stubby, star-shaped fin for the swell of shriveled jazz
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 5:23:29 AM # 1.0.0.1119
