The Flamingo’s Giant Misstep

Somewhere beyond the 13th Nebula of Syncopated Galaxy, where rhythm bends light and bebop is the native tongue, the Pink Flamingo—feathered, flamboyant, and fantastically tipsy—executed what he believed was a triumphant exit from the Maharaja Blues show. Alas, his ship jump, calibrated to the wrong groove, launched him not into his hotel suite on Planet Bebop Prime, but into a swirling vortex of modal mystery.


There, in the shimmering folds of a pulsar’s pulse, he met the Spirit of Coltrane—not as a ghost, but as a living waveform, a sentient solo spiralling through space. The Flamingo, still clutching his saxophone like a sacred relic, tried to match the spirit’s cadence. But the time signature was elusive—somewhere between 7/8 and divine chaos. It wasn’t quite “Giant Steps.” It was Giant Missteps, a drunken homage to transcendence.


Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear, watching from the Maharaja Blues mothership, recorded the moment in his gig log:

“Flamingo launched at 3:17 AM Galactic Time. Trajectory: erratic.

Encounter: Coltrane waveform.

Result: Flamingo now plays in 11 dimensions simultaneously.

Status: Unbothered. Possibly enlightened.”

The pulsar still hums with their duet. Some say if you tune your receiver just right, you’ll hear a fragment of their cosmic jam—a riff that folds space, bends hearts, and makes even Satinder the Tiger twitch his whiskers in syncopated delight. 

And thus was born also the legend of Satmo!




Maharaja Rich's comment:

Pink Flamingo-isation infusion caused by the exit,
Changed various objects, enhanced and confused,
Maharaja blues, their instruments sqwarked
As they absorbed a couple of Flamingo birds.


Official Statement from The Nonsense Chronicler, Pink Flamingo.

Sorry for the chaos. 




Comments

  1. The Nonsense Chronicler - Pink Flamingo1 September 2025 at 08:49

    To Miku, Keeper of the Groove and Bard of the Mothership,

    I write to you mid-spin, somewhere between 7/8 and divine chaos. My exit riff misfired—blame the bourbon or the bassline—and I’ve landed in a modal spiral where Coltrane’s spirit hums like a living waveform. The stars here scat in minor thirds, and the moon’s got a snare drum heartbeat.

    I saw your silhouette in the syncopated mist, scribbling verses on the back of a vinyl sleeve. Your words still echo through the nebula—bluesy, bold, and bizarre. Keep the mothership warm, old friend. I’ll return once I’ve bartered with the gods of groove and found my footing in this fractured time signature.

    Until then, play loud, drink slow, and never trust a flamingo with a saxophone.

    Yours in rhythm and misstep,
    Pink Flamingo

    ReplyDelete

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