Pink Flamingo in the House of Swirls

Pink Flamingo, time-tossed bard,

Tripped through clocks and landed hard

In Holland’s hush, where madness dwelled

A painter’s lair, where silence yelled.


Thick ginger hair, a glint of a strange kind,

Eyes ablaze with storms of mind,

“Drink this tea,” the artist said,

And Pink obeyed, now filled with dread.


A chair, a brush, a canvas wide,

Swirls erupted, bold with pride.

Pink sat still, but in his head

Saxophones danced, syncopated red.


Outside, the world was deaf to tune,

Too dull for jazz beneath the moon.

The painter sighed, his soul unfurled,

And stepped alone into the world


Sad and swirling, starry eyed,

Lonely as the night he cried.

Pink remained, a painted spark,

A relic glowing in the dark.

by Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear 🐻 


The journey didn’t end there of course.

Pink lured Vincent into the swirl dimension with a trail of pastry steam and whispered brushstrokes that painted themselves on the wind. A sunflower formed a portal and Vincent stepped through the portal, croissant trains roared past, filled with cello-playing otters and marmalade monks, while his regrets turned into edible luggage and his palette began to hum. Flamingo winked: “Now you see why we swirl.”

Vincent mistook what he saw for madness—those buttery locomotives steaming through his synapses—but really, it was just Pink in his usual Interdimensional self simply unveiling his latest venture: croissant trains, puff-pastry powered and punctual to the minute of whimsy."


What occurred according to Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear 

The Croissant Train

One afternoon, Pink wandered back,

To find the painter, ginger and slack

Outside he sat, a brushless sage,

Eyes still swirling with starry rage.


Pink played his tune, a blocked refrain,

Take the Croissant Train, his jazz domain.

Duke Ellington once shook his head,

Too flaky, too buttery, too far ahead.


But then, Bang❗️A flare! Carrington born,

Blew through the notes like a solar horn.

Reality melted, music swirled,

And over the fields, a new world twirled.


A choo, a chugchug, faint then loud,

The sky split open, croissant cloud.

Steam and brass and pastry gold,

Thundered past in rhythms bold.


The painter rose, his eyes aglow,

Pink’s saxophone began to blow.

Together they watched, entranced, amazed,

As the Croissant Train blazed and blazed.


No ticket needed, no track too tight

Just jazz and madness, croissant light.

And somewhere deep in Duke’s old score,

A note now reads: Encore, encore.

How did Maharaja Blues get involved?

This can only be explained by a phenomenon known as The Croissant Convergence as explained here by Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear.

In a cellar deep in Calcutta’s dust,
Lay a canvas cloaked in time and rust
Van Gogh’s lost tea party, a swirling fête,
Where stars and steam met croissant fate.

Pink Flamingo, syncopation king,
Blew riffs so wild they bent the spring
Of time itself, and through the haze
Came Maharajas in a mystic blaze

Rich the Rooster, strings ablaze,
Strummed dawn’s fire in bluesy phrase.
Satinder roared with tabla might,
His paws a blur in Van Gogh’s light.

Jon the Fox, sly smile aglow,
Wove tales with his harmonica, both high and low.
And Miku Bear, bard of the breeze,
Played bass lines steeped in honeyed teas.

They crashed the party, unannounced,
As Pink’s wild notes around them bounced.
Van Gogh looked up, his eyes gone wide
“Mon dieu,” he gasped, “the stars have cried!”

Tea was poured in porcelain dreams,
Croissants puffed up in pastry streams.
The train returned, its whistle bent,
Through Gauguin’s fields and firmament.

Art and music, time entwined,
In Calcutta’s cellar, fate aligned.
A jam eternal, brush and beat
Where Maharajas and madness meet.


Music for this blog 

Trigger Credits

Parts of this blog and pictures were inspired by Yasue the panda from Japan in America on threads.

Though her brain melted 🫠 in the process of communicating with an Interdimensional Pink Flamingo and was also pulled into the swirling dimension.


Addendum

The Parable of the Back EMF and the Starry Scribbler

Once, in the twilight between gig and galaxy,
The Maharajas of Maharaja Blues—Rich the Rooster, Satinder the Tiger, Jon the Fox, and Miku the Bard Bear
Departed the Dutch tea party with Pink Flamingo,
Their syncopations having stirred the very fabric of spacetime.

As they vanished, the sky above Holland ignited
Swirls of cobalt, chrome, and cadmium yellow
Spun like tabla rhythms across the firmament.
The night was no longer night, but a canvas of cosmic residue.

This departure, unmeasured and unmetered,
Generated a back EMF so immense
It tore through the quantum veil of sleep
And plucked a dreaming American singer-songwriter
From his bed in a quiet Midwestern town.

He was flung, not violently, but gently
Like a note bent in an epic blues solo
Into the Dutch countryside of 1889,
Where he hovered, half-asleep, half-spectral,
Witness to a man with ginger hair askew,
Eyes ablaze with divine madness,
Painting stars that pulsed like Morse code from the soul.

Van Gogh did not see him,
But the American saw everything
The brush, the breath, the trembling hand,
The way the sky seemed to listen.

Then, just as suddenly,
The back EMF eddied, reversed,
And pulled the dreamer back through the quantum loop,
Leaving only a trace of stardust on his pillow.

He awoke with tears and trembling fingers,
And scribbled down a song
A lament for the painter, the stars,
And the swirling night that once sang to him.

Some say the song was called Vincent.
Some say it was written in a single breath.
But those who know the parable
Know it was the Maharajas and Pink Flamingo
Who tuned the cosmos that night,
And Van Gogh who painted its echo.

By Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear 


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