Hour 5: Create.
Hour 6: Respond
Fight Music + Broken marionette (by me)
Mr. Moustache just laughs, reaches down and uses one of the tails of Noël’s tux.
I am no longer here.
No longer in the lobby of L’Hotel Regina in Paris. It has crumbled to useless rock and burned to ash.
I can no longer smell the flowers of Les Tuileries. Smoke pours from my nostrils. Napalm runs through my veins.
I am a biomechanoengineered automaton built for the killing floor. My retinal heads-up display identifies my target in a picosecond. It is red.
When my 5000-horsepower legs kick me into motion, they churn the bricks as though they were the fertile fields of Flanders, poppies and corpses ground to dust to make my bread.
Abstract Flugelhorn + Trumpet in the Night (by somnambulant)
I play my trumpet in the night
not for you, for all the rest
I want them to see you in that dress
want them to see me with you in that dress.
Is it right? It’s my right. It feels so right
to play my trumpet in the night.
Weekend dancing every night
friday saturday sin and noir,
sunday masquerade and ball
everybody talking bout who they saw
fucking on the dance floor
folie a deux, menage a trois
They’re not right. It’s our right.
It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.
I play my trumpet in the night.