Monday, February 2, 2009

Cleaving Jaipong


javanese—jaipongan jive
my singing boyfriend—so moody ethereal
his sexy husky alto—shifting to soprano sigh
how he drifts away thru—dark bamboo forests

his young voice—so exquisitely déjà vu
he’s got that ’80s pop culture—jaipongan jive
even though it’s—30 austere years later

his sensuous—long legs glowing
like woody tones of—sundanese suling flutes
his dancing peppered with—microtonal glides

chinese traditional songs—who knows where
nailing them down—with such emotional directness
the dead giveaway—of a lonely boy

he’s thousands of miles—away from home
his backup instrumentation—pitched drums
rippling metallophones—deep bass gongs

and that mosquito buzz—of a rebab violin
so reminiscent—of gamelan orchestras
but lighter more steeped—in dreams of love

he rides his motorbike—fast at night
he’s got idjah hadidjah's—evocative voice
justifiably he’s a real—attention-getter

his sundanese—jaipongan pop style
jazzed up by—gugum gumbira tirasondjaja
he’s got lots to offer—jaded tourists like me

in the nude—the courtly, high-art atmosphere
punctured by players—a jugala group orchestra
sullenly muttering comments—about the kid

love-struck too—by the young male diva
erupting into whooping—rhythmic grunting
true to jaipongan's roots—as a village genre

Ketuk tilun—performed by a boy prostitute
during a saucy dance—with his tourist client
homoerotic love—oozing beneath the surface

adding fire—bouts of furious drumming
virtuoso skin-man suwanda—blazing glory
long and lusty—"daun pulus keser bojong"

all the shouting—the loudest drums
oversaturating the night—the kid definitely hot
even tho jaipongan—has come & gone

all pop genres—on the planet die
everything falls out of fashion—everything
worthy of resuscitation—remembering

even colin bass—prog-rock group camel
efforts by former—3 mustaphas 3 member
sabah habas mustapha—gumbira's house band

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