04-07-2015, 04:34 AM
obligatory liability disclaimer: I blame Milo. He was supposed to chose an image so I'd stay focused. But alas, I did not. Left to my own devices I chose to seek out inspiration from a familiar source: blues music, and just typed in image search 'singing blues painting' and found this beautiful work, but I cannot name the artist or title. I think the original artwork was found on a 4 pt CD of blues out of France. Once again, this is all Milo's fault.
Funky Sings the Blues
There’s this joint down on fifty third—
behind a dumpster full of free-range rats and
stagnant dreams.
Underneath the neon lights,
the moths flop saggy-daisy down.
Just inside the door,
you’ll know that Hell ain’t far away.
The cracks hold the cankered-newspaper walls together
and the cold that lives there is neither good nor evil—
just a fact of life.
Everything there’s a victim of shadow and light,
of circumstance.
There’s this one lady at the back
who holds the microphone like a newborn,
holds it like a life line in her shaky hands;
somehow she manages to strangle the dreariness out of the room.
Repeating these two words over and over again
just behind the beat
just enough to turn you on.
She sings, “Love me.”
She sings, “Love me.”
No one notices the track marks radiating up her too-skinny arms,
the dark circles under her never-sleep eyes,
the roar of her rarely-fed belly
or the don’t-own-a-brush hairstyle she gets sleeping in the alley.
She becomes the most beautiful girl in the world,
when Funky sings.
![[Image: b13656db629363214c02d3b890814121.jpg]](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b1/36/56/b13656db629363214c02d3b890814121.jpg)
Funky Sings the Blues
There’s this joint down on fifty third—
behind a dumpster full of free-range rats and
stagnant dreams.
Underneath the neon lights,
the moths flop saggy-daisy down.
Just inside the door,
you’ll know that Hell ain’t far away.
The cracks hold the cankered-newspaper walls together
and the cold that lives there is neither good nor evil—
just a fact of life.
Everything there’s a victim of shadow and light,
of circumstance.
There’s this one lady at the back
who holds the microphone like a newborn,
holds it like a life line in her shaky hands;
somehow she manages to strangle the dreariness out of the room.
Repeating these two words over and over again
just behind the beat
just enough to turn you on.
She sings, “Love me.”
She sings, “Love me.”
No one notices the track marks radiating up her too-skinny arms,
the dark circles under her never-sleep eyes,
the roar of her rarely-fed belly
or the don’t-own-a-brush hairstyle she gets sleeping in the alley.
She becomes the most beautiful girl in the world,
when Funky sings.