tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36477542011-04-22T10:44:53.185+10:00Blue MilesGetting into the persona of Miles. A fictive exploration of sex, leadership and memory. Oh, and jazz.rino breebaartnoreply@blogger.comBlogger61100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3647754.post-846045962002-11-16T12:53:00.000+10:002002-11-16T12:53:54.936+10:00Miles sitting on the black fire escape in a shock of rumination, memories crashing into him.
The big ass that spawned the world, a woman so gigantic she's organic order by mass alone...
That quaint object of man's desire, now the boobs, now the cheeks, always something or some part of her body. A desire that is always there, switched on like a light bulb keeping guard. A desire to make her, to rino breebaartnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3647754.post-807049982002-08-26T09:53:00.000+10:002002-08-26T09:53:00.050+10:00Miles couldn't source the melody when it came to him — another line straight outta major blues, but he could blow with ease around it. The rehearsal had only just started. The new horn was breaking in. Maybe the quartet was the way to go again he thought, like all them years before... Everyone was blowing off the vamp. Something about the second horn compressed everything else, forcing everyone rino breebaartnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3647754.post-803834362002-08-18T16:59:00.000+10:002002-08-18T16:59:31.860+10:00The deliciously accommodating ring of her cunt tightly circumnavigated his cock, first tight then warming and loosening with movement and ease, receptively swelling with sensation. At first Miles had the perennial chords on his mind, the funky deep ghost-rhythms around a major E, but these drifted away as new waves crashed upon his midriff, slowly immersing the rest of him.
Returning his breath rino breebaartnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3647754.post-803832982002-08-18T16:52:00.000+10:002002-08-18T16:52:14.773+10:00It wasn't so much that the noise was all around, all around his head and the room, but Miles was hearing rhythm in everything. The honk of taxis through the window, the skank of the elevator engine nearby, and the plumbing shaking with occasion vibration. He reasoned that the room, or rather the loft, because of its age, warranted some excuse. But this was the first time, sitting and posing on a rino breebaartnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3647754.post-799288032002-08-07T18:10:00.000+10:002002-08-07T18:10:56.143+10:00Miles was vamping at the loud behest of the audience, advanced, adroit. Blowing the first solo between cigarette takes — la de da, la de da da ree dar daar, higher and higher stacked fourths with a third on top, eyes shut for the squeals which Dizz said he couldn’t play anyway. Vamping the line to pump it with the swing — the play is full but he can feel its progress creeping up on him like hooksrino breebaartnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3647754.post-796797382002-08-01T18:03:00.000+10:002002-08-01T18:03:38.366+10:00Miles looked down at the sling going in and out of the mesh of dark flesh and hair, and the pink comma of her clit pointed up and winked back at him. Miles was a leading man and needed a new tenor. Sonny had the look of the regular horse about him; Coltrane was either coming or going off the H but could at least hold a gig, so he was in. Miles had someone else inform Sonny, the lately absent rino breebaartnoreply@blogger.com