My collected works, Journals of Lord Malinov (second edition) is free today on Amazon.
We are, in ways, the sum of the songs that have captivated us, from youth through age, and each of our collections are unique, depending on the musical universe we find ourselves growing, lyrical, swirling words sundered unto our developing mental frames. Music becomes our essence and it’s presence can be transformative.
This guy took hold of the mike familiarly and changed before my eyes. When he stepped through the crowd, he was a simple, overweight, somewhat goofy little guy, with an all-too-ordinary job in an everyday world. Sign here and initial here. But he changed when he stepped up on stage. A meek and kind middle-aged man transformed into charm and charisma, belting out choreographed effusions from the heyday of song, of tuxedos and gin, drinking and loving into tomorrow. More for my baby, more for my road. The proud soft pauses of lyrical magic.
I took my first look into my notebook, my most constant companion, since about the time I could walk, in one form or another. This version included an ever expanding list of songs I had considered singing and so was crucial to my task, finding songs to sing. I came upon long lines of lyrical poetry, unfolding experiences in pages, illuminating pleasures, opening pains into the veins of living promises made and promptly lost. Released into the darkness like a cloud of smoke rising from the pursed lips of a weary kiss. What a tedious business music is, a few notes lofted, lifted, lilted, twisted, turned, entwined, tossed, low rumbles, spinning rises, linguistic gymnastics, leering teased effected in innuendo. The endless glories of ecstatic puns delivered on the belly, a respite from the rigors more important than we think. Weariness wearing interminably, so many questions wondering, placed within the planes. I assumed a detachment that would not last long.
Like an immature vampire, Saul was more affected than true. Long string black hair had been deliberately moussed into a provocative emo-scrawl, his piercings and tattoos organized carefully to maintain his persona, fashionable alternative clothing draped as though a photograph loomed immanent, a wry smile poised to express rebellion while nervously caressing the hand of an awkward girl posing as best she could, as the woman who might accompany this icon of young rebel song.
“Good shit,” she said, laughing further, taking hold of her left breast and deftly slipping a finger under the cloth, rearranged the fall of fabric against a hardened nipple to ease a developing strain. I nodded agreement while holding my since taken hit sternly within and proffered the smouldering joint for her to imbibe again. She closed her eyes, ignorant for a time of my offer, relaxing in a wave that visibly descended along her nubile body, slipping a finger thoughtlessly under the elastic border of her soft, white pussy wrap while the ember floated glowing in the excited space between us.
“Mmmm,” she intoned as her eyes slightly spread open. She reached again for the dope we shared. “I need this so badly,” she moaned and inhaled deeply of the smoke, her fingers still caressing the damp folds between her slowly spreading legs, raising her chest, emphasizing the fullness and staring joyfully into my eyes.
Seated beside me, isolated from the cacophonous chaos continuing to erupt from the bright glow of the bar, across the emptiness of a nearly abandoned lot, Silver closed her eyes and slowly lifted her skirt to scratch gently at the soft crease cotton shrouded at the join of pale thighs. Sighing softly, she reached over to take a slender joint from my fingers. A bright orange cherry glowed with the slowly sucking intake of her pretty pursed lips, full breasts lofted upwards, the eternal feminine, nipples bulging as she held her hit indefinitely, breathless as she offered the smouldering weed stick back to the pinch of my nimble grasp, smiling in the pained refusal to release the smoky intoxicant from the fortress of her lungs until a sudden gasp erupted in a thick cloud of sweet grey. She laughed and tickled her cunny mindlessly.
“I don’t really dig your name,” Saul said to the Big E, a strangely personal comment coming out of the blue, as he mindlessly flipped through the pages of Big E’s promotional notebook.
“My name?” he asked, nearly dumbfounded by Saul’s boldness, exploding with a hearty laugh of experience at the naive insight of a mere child. “What’s wrong with my name?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Saul sincerely, having no desire to offend, purely wanting to discuss the matter professionally. “It just seems so ordinary, not at all the kind of name I could imagine seeing in lights.”
“The Big E. I can see it.”
Saul shook his head and went back to turning photos of shows performed years before.