outlaw poetry and free jazz network

blues in the night

the discovery
of secret sounds
that hide in ice
in the boles
of trees
born
in fierce fires
I am talking
music here
I am talking
the crucible

by Milner Place

some related articles are listed below:

1. milner place | they asked the old man Milner Place… …Born 25/1/30… First job timber faller before doing National Service 1948/50… Some time at Agricultural College but opted out… worked as barman… managed farm and estate… got involved in horse racin…1953… sailed to South Africa… worked as undergound surveyor copper mines… managed fruit farm...1955 returned to England to manage another farm, left and entered journalism…1958… sailed to new York …1958/61… Bahamas, did some surveying work. Bought a dinghy and learned to sail. Then a sloop, freighting and fishing… skippered for Burl Ives… took over yacht in Miami… returned to England… left for Majorca…Dec 1961… smuggling run to Algiers...
2. milner place | some shavings of fausto medina, carpintero Some shavings of Fausto Medina, carpintero. My chisels all ground fine so that the wood won’t scream. The saw blades keen, well oiled to amputate the limbs of olive trees for table legs, and willow boughs to back-frame kitchen chairs. Windows I’ve silled for matadors, ladies of the night. I turned a wooden leg for Pedro Obregon, who lost his underneath a horse and cart, went to sea as cook on a shrimper sunk off Dogfish Bay. I smell of pine, turpentine, my wife of rosemary, so when we kiss we scent the air around our lips. My son...
3. milner place | etude Etude Falling off the soft sound, breaking the painted window to let in the scent of gangrene; to see clearly the toad writhing in a snake’s gorge, and the carnations in the buttonholes of bankers. And you should know how Jose Cisneros died in the dark hut to the clicking of rosaries; lungs choked with broken rock and no spare coins to close the eyes. And I could tell you how Felicidad Consuelo and Maria Benavides were raped in the cells. But you should know all this from the cries of desolate birds, muteness of dark-leafed trees. Share and...
4. milner place | the road to damascus The road to Damascus All along Jensen Avenue poverty had spilled out of the houses, even the dogs and cats had caught it and a harsh and sulfurous light had faded the T-shirts of the jobless welders and the blouses of their pubescent daughters. The newsagents on the north-west corner didn’t sell wallets, and the glass case full of pens and watches was sealed with a patina of dead dust. That’s not to say that dignity had been abolished, nor that the music that inhabits aspirations was silenced nor the drums of passion dismantled. Children blew about the street...
5. milner place | dark wings Dark wings She thought this is my lucky day, when the baas didn’t beat her when she spilled the coffee, when he didn’t squeeze her young breasts and take her like a sweating bull when the missie went shopping; when she wasn’t locked in the shed with no windows for having forgotten to polish the horns of the kudu, whose sad head hung over the mantlepiece gazing at the twin tusks and assegais on the facing wall; when they said she could go home for a night, even to leave in the gold and pinks of the sunset, to...