Bar-room murmurs a dripping beat,
loud with sounding brass
and heavy metal thunder.

Lightening up in perfumed clouds
of illicit smoke
we badmouth in street talk
this lifeless life.

Poor art. Poor you. Poor me.
Pour me. Pour over me
in liquid waves
falling scales of
blue, blue notes.

Time runs
at thirty three and a third,
scratching out our dusty soundtrack.

Fading into terrific
silence.

James Mills

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blue-notes/