And Woody Herman Played

Blues in the Night. A malignant moon shines his metallic claws - combs my hair and brushes me forward. I am alone in the shadowy crooks of a poisoned metropolis. A clandestine garbage chute - where waifs and strays burn within the fetid bowels of a cavernous concrete underbelly. The orphanage awaits my arrival, as muted outcries are crushed beneath my footsteps. A parentless prison teeters atop Utopia's dreaded brim; the hamlet where Orwell slew Hilton. St. Peter has been released and no longer tends the kitchen. Agony and angel wings reneged a redundant brotherhood of sorts. His recipe for remorse shall be missed. Blues in the Night. In the distance, feigned epileptic outbursts placates a patron's fears. Caffeine injections stimulates another's venial sins as it magnifies their cardinal options. An insomnious woman converses with a napkin holder. The surface is dull and unreflective, like she. Banter never-to-be heard by her never-to-be gentleman caller. I am home – amongst the dead I adore. A haggard waitress serves me a menu. A laminated journal stained with melancholy and mustard. Desolation and demi-tasse are tonight’s midnight special. Ten cents additional, if you order deluxe. Blues in the Night. I twiddle my thumbs for I have no other’s to borrow. I catch my rugged reflection in the asylum’s window. I espy my counterpart again in a twisted spoon - realizing I’m three utensils short from a grievous quartet salted with Mack Sennett misfits. A collection of dishes clatter above the sanatorium’s jukebox. I place my spoon on the counter and pick up a lifeless knife. I envy its potential and possibilities as Woody Herman croons in the background.