The Chanteuse
alone,
crooning existential
torch-lit ennui,
marinaded in
absinthed vocals,
in the salons
and bars of
La Rive Gauche,
domicile to flaneurs
and bohemian confreres;
she is wounding
their hearts with
visceral monotonous langour;
amid smouldering pyres
of Gauloises,
stygian-leafed frissons
of earthy odeur,
redolent of arcane
manual labour,
debts
and
despair.
Music can make you unwind but, some tunes just rip your heart apart. Artists come up with masterpieces and the audience is spellbound. These sentences seemingly look incomplete but, in actuality complete the essence of a performance so well. Wonderful poem Sir!!!
Nostalgic memories of the great Edith P! This sparrow could sing and render listeners speechless. A successful ‘capture’; a delightful read.