Midnight DJ

Midnight DJ

It’s a rainy night in the city.
It’s only me here in the studio.
The phone lines are open
But no-one ever calls,
Though I can feel all those lost souls,
The night shifts,
The insomniacs
Looking at the rain as it rolls down their
Window panes,
The empty streets reflecting the sodium glare
Of solitary streetlights, scattershot neon,
The dull overcast night sky
Stained brown.

Here’s a sleazy jazz number,
Plaintive for the forgotten,
A sad sax penetrating aching limbs,
Sweat-soaked chests,
Sheets flung aside,
The cool fingers of night a porcelain ghost
Drumming along with the relentless rain,
A midnight poet awake at his desk in
A pool of light on the 32nd floor,
His words have all become meaningless,
But here’s your jazz nonetheless, fella.

It’s a rainy night in the city.
I purr into the microphone, lull
My listeners with inconsequential thoughts,
Philosophy for the broken-hearted.
‘I can’t remember if I closed the fridge door
When I left to come here tonight.
It might be open, it might be ajar.
Open or closed, it’s prone to involuntary
Openings based on the loose floorboard on whose
Surface a soul may step thus causing
The fridge door to open, dear listeners,
And here’s some more cool jazz, cool,
Fresh from the fridge that might be open.’

Drops of rain race down the pane, lit from behind
By errant neon from the adjacent offices
Of a corporate cat-spaying conglomerate,
I cue the next track,
Piano riffs bouncing through the psyche of this concrete
Accumulation of slumbering demons,
Too tired to haunt the present moment they dream
Their cursed dreams as I sip my cold black coffee
And spill it down my Justin Bieber t-shirt, the
Contours of my stomach having long since given
His Biebness an involuntary scowl, and now,
He’s sweating Americano too.

Time to croon for the fallen, my tones an audible shiver,
A timbre for the forsaken, I lean in and
Ponder on the likelihood, has anyone thought, of
The planet in its entirety coming under the machinations
Of rabbits, our bunny overlords fierce and bending our will,
Is it not likely, to elevate their rabbitty schemes,
And dear listener, Thumper was never a friend of mine,
Accompanied by a low rumble of thunder this last thought
Hangs in the air like static before an advertisement
For J. Arthur Bowyer’s Synchro-Boost Houseplant Compost.

Radio signals bounce and slide between the skyscrapers.
I’m the friend in the corner, a scratchy crackle,
A solitary bar-hugging oracle bringing solace to the forgotten.
Humid apartments whose dank walls cling on to the heat,
Windows flung open on the ceaseless din of falling rain
As I ponder in a dulcet murmur on whether
It was the news guy, or the traffic reporter, who
Stole my lunch from the staff kitchen, and what the
Chances are that mullets might come back into fashion,
And why are downpipes called downpipes when it’s blatantly obvious
That water doesn’t flow upwards, and here’s some
Early Coltrane, except by mistake I say Colgate,
Not that anyone’s likely to mention this as
No-one ever calls.

It’s a rainy night in the city.
I’m your late night friend.
And all those lost souls, they hang on my words
As distant thunder rumbles, sheet lightning
Silhouetting the solemn tombstone skyscrapers,
A dead squid is in the gutter, flowing inexorably
Towards the drain, where it comes from no-one knows,
Or it could be a carrier bag, the next song
Is a long one because I need to go for a pee.

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