post-modern age? Did their cache enjoy such health
that it naturally bled past the New Wave, riding it
without effort, into the electronic default?
I hear the beats now, soft, a breathy vox pulling
them like beads from her tongue. The seduction
capable of the stereo-type quadruples like an
errant gene come alive, squirming the whole
gender open in terrifying blossom.
The pouty kiss of that language sparked thanks
to up and comers of that country, the artist MIA of its
neighbor. Breathy moans were not invented by the French,
just perfected by them.
Struck by the cocktail: modern, sterile syncopation in a
vintage nubile base, as if Lady Day
decided to come back all carnal, just to give
her blessing to the future of fantasy.
Dipthongs rise and lilt in some breezy attempt.
A smile to lift the summer hem. A glimpse of sun
on knee, too conconscious of itself.
Each beat is a finger on a nerve point
unknowingly errogenous.
Every note a Kegel flex
around my wide-opened heart.
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