Old friends, lost in time,
brilliant minds in cluttered rooms,
stories left untold.
Sleek like jagged glass,
the sound of her name cuts deep,
whispered in terror.

Avon’s smirk betrayed,
their trust a fragile mirror,
shattered with a kiss.
A glance too deadly,
the TARDIS doors slammed shut fast,
time feared her power.

Shaken, never stirred,
a queen of venom and wit,
Bond was not ready.
Love, a loaded gun,
cocked with whispers, fired with doubt,
none were left standing.

A mask worn too long,
laughter hiding heavy storms,
storms she dared to name.
Fur against her skin,
the kindest soul she had met,
gentle hands held tight.

Two stars in one flat,
laughter echoing like ghosts,
whiskey-fueled legends.
Future’s finest chair,
a past life in some office,
painted destiny.






A Cycle of Faces and Fates 3 17 25

#jazz #freeimprov #freejazz #jazzpunk #noisejazz #postjazz.

Racket Kin is a musical riot made flesh (and amps). Born from Kraków’s nighttime pulse, the trio emerged as sonic anarchists, fusing improvisation with sheer chaos to form a genre-defying soundscape that flirts with delirium.

Bambino: One shop destroyed. Three heads split like overripe melons. One man wounded and one castrated. All in two hours. Just two hours I left you alone. Two hours.
Trinity: Well, you asked me to give you a hand.

A Cycle of Faces and Fates 3 17 25

MMMMudd