“Beneath the Bell of the Moon”

[Beneath the Bell of the Moon] — [A Beat Rhyme Sermon for the Turntable Messiah ]— [Smoky saxophone riff, upright bass walking offbeat, turntable scratches like whispers in a cave] [Male // Beat Prophet // Slow-Slick & Snapping Fingers] (You there, daddy-o. Set that mirror down... it's starting to listen.) Well now hey— Don’t close the phrase just ‘cause it lays like that, Words got tails, man—like a jazz cat in a zoot hat. They scurry and flurry, don’t hurry the swing, Rhyme ain’t a rule—it’s a telephone ring. Pick it up? Maybe. Let it buzz? Baby. It ain’t the rhyme, it’s the shimmy in the maybe. [Sax squawks a sour harmony, vinyl skip kicks in like a heartbeat missed] See, I rhymed “cake” with “flake” with “ache” with “quake,” But I meant “mistake,” Still the room went shake. So I juggled the beat, gave the bass a wink, Let the line tip over... And then served it with a drink. [Chorus // Snapped Fingers, Ghost Piano Echo] Not every rhyme is a kiss on the cheek, Some slap you silly then hide for a week. Some hug too long with a bourbon grin, Some walk out backwards just to sneak back in. Yeah. [Male // Quick Tongue Slide // Mid-Fast Patterscat] I once rhymed “orange” with “door hinge” in French. (Made sense to a bench, but offended a wench.) I said, “M’lady, language bends like knees,” She said, “Your rhymes got fleas,” I said, “Cool—pass the cheese.” [Turntablism // vinyl whip-back into a horn blast] Wanna rhyme clean? Go shine a coin ‘til it sings. Wanna rhyme mean? Give the word some wings. Let it flap, let it snap, let it improv the trap, Then call it a poem While it naps in your lap. [Chorus // Scat-Warped Voices, Trumpet Swells Like a Yawn] Not all rhymes ring true, no sir, Some just purr like a confused chauffeur. Rhyme ain't gospel, it's jazz in a skirt— Truth wears suspenders and eats the dirt. [Male // Preacher-Tone // Low and Louder] I once rhymed “time” with “mime on the stoop,” She mimed back “truth,” I said, “Ain’t that a loop?” ‘Cause time don’t rhyme like a line in a book— It rhymes like a look That cooks when you ain’t shook. [Bridge // Sax Solo Dueling With a Scratching DJ] (Turntablism kicks in—words repeat, loop, warp into shadow) "Truth... truth... juggles spoons..." "Lies... lies... got rented balloons..." (Whip back, hiss, vinyl breathes) [Male // Whispery-Beatnik God // Falsetto Madness] So rhyme, daddy, rhyme like it’s post-apocalyptic tea, Like T.S. Eliot snuck into a bongo jamboree. Rhyme with your elbows, your knees, and your doubt— But don’t rhyme straight. Rhyme inside out. ‘Cause the moon don’t rise. It slides. The spoon don’t stir. It confides. And if rhyme comes knockin’ with flowers in hand— Ask it to dance. Then steal its band. [Outro Chorus // Humming, Phasing, Looping Fiddle in Reverse] Not all that rhymes is holy, sweet, Some just scuff up your sacred beat. But if it sings in the jazz of your shoe— Then duckie, it’s true. It’s twisted. It’s new. It’s you.