I walk through the city
tunning my trombone voice,
jazzing the ambient with noice.
My misery won’t let me be happy
always the moon was a nice amulet,
now my time is dying.
Once I had a joyful sight
and I believed strong against
human degradation. And my experience
was awful and sinner, the solitude
arouse in my mind with a million voices.
My trombone voice is shield
in this narcotic country.
I used to believe in illustration values:
freedom, equality, and fraternity.
And the philosophers said we are postmoderns
I that ruin an inner voice, my citizenship voice.
But I had not been a good boy.
I forget music too, trapped
in a bad memory: and I call my life a nightmare.
Then I develop my trombone voice
not for making music
but for jazzing the pain and violence
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