MODERNIST

Sweat pours from the hair line of the cat who’s moves are only as sharp as the creases in his trousers and the sounds in his ears, pure euphoria pours into the vaccinity around the cat’s head and shoulders in four four time.  The music is strumming, plucking, booming and thumping alright and the voice of a brother of a shade darker than that of our cat and that of the rest of the cats in our cave grooving to his pleading, yearning and churning words of love echoing around each individuals ears.  Sharing his soul with the chosen few, who don’t care if it is that way, because they know that others wouldn’t accept nevertheless understand the soul of our brother.  The cats all wear suits, but not the grey (or gray depending on which side of the big blue you read and dig upon) two buttoned gravy stained ill fitting sunday best of Ye Olde England.  For these suits are only the best in continental cloth, and if they’re are not one of our cats would be able to tell instantly.  A nicer than nice little, and it has to be little, mohair number in black, brown, blue, plain or pinstripe, or even bold double coloured tonik. Three or four buttons, huge sides or a substantial back vent, trousers creased so sharp and immovable yet swaying with every beat of the thunderous music.  Accompanied by a button down shirt, plain, check, whatever you could dig deep in your soul to imagine, always colourful, always exotic, always smart, smart and smashing and matching your socks.  And always complimented by the finest of fine silk paisley cravat or tie, plain, or with a daring vertical stripe just off centre, or even patterned if you’d like, but what you must remember is that one’s neckwear always complimented the button-down-type shirt my friend.

Shoes each scuff is considered an offence as if you were playing or swaying behind the godfather, as you imagined you were each and every night, each scuff or scrape was a fine, and a fine fine it was too, keeping the cool cats above the sordids and the sordids down there, wherever they choose and find possible to lay their heads as we twist the night away.

the twist, the block, the dog, the hitch-hike, the shake, the ska

For there are no sordids down here, you’d have to take break upstairs to see them.  Although you definitely won’t make contact, apart from that of maybe the eye, unless one does venture inside into our world to query upon directions to the nearby train station to return back to suburbia and escape labourous commuting life for the weekend, which for us has just begun with the plucking of the double bass cat in the corner.  (describe jazz band and clothes, miles davies el gatos)

Some may call it elitist or even snobbery but I argue that it is those on the other side, those uncultured pop pickers who constantly try and invade our worlds, far too ignorant to understand that we are all connected and in every strand of society and sinew of the human heart, each and every one, it is all Modernist.