Monochrome Mondays
🦩Monochrome Monday with Chaplin & The Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo
In grayscale dawn, with feathers neat,
Pink tiptoed down a cobbled street.
A bowler hat, a cane in wing,
He mimed the moon and tried to sing.
Chaplin chuckled, eyes aglow,
“Let’s film a dance in silent snow.”
They twirled through takes, both bird and man,
A flamingo’s flair, a comic plan.
No colour needed, just heart and grace—
Two timeless souls in black-and-white space.
🦩
Maharaja blues with Memphis Minnie.
In a cellar stitched from velvet dusk,
Where lanterns swing and secrets musk,
The tiger taps with regal grace,
Tabla thunder in smoky space.
The fox, sly-eyed, with breath so lean,
Draws sorrow from his silver reed—
A harmonica hymn, half-lost, half-found,
Like whispers stitched to underground.
The rooster struts with steel in hand,
His resonator a mythic brand—
Each slide a spell, each chord a flame,
A barnyard bard with blues to claim.
The bear, unfazed in mirrored shade,
Plucks basslines deep as debts unpaid.
His paws, precise, his groove profound,
A heartbeat carved in underground.
Then Minnie rose, a siren bold,
Her voice a map of tales retold—
She sang of love, of loss, of fight,
Of feathers, fur, and jazz at night.
The crowd—a blur of beast and man,
Of plumage, tusks, and contraband—
They swayed, they roared, they raised their glass,
To myth reborn in music’s mass.
So let this gig be writ in lore,
A speakeasy spell forevermore—
Where Maharaja Blues did play,
And Memphis Minnie led the way.
🎭 “Cut from Casablanca” — A Flamingo’s Lament
I wore the suit, the bowtie black,
My feathers pressed, no flair, no slack.
The piano hummed, the gin was dry,
Rick lit a smoke and asked me why.
I said, “I’m here for love, not war,”
He said, “This ain’t your kind of score.”
Ilsa wept in monochrome,
While I stood tall, alone, unknown.
The studio men, with suits and frowns,
Declared me “too surreal for town.”
“Feathers clash with Bogart’s grit—
Cut the bird, it doesn’t fit.”
But I had lines! I had a song!
A smoky jazz that burned too long.
I winked at Sam, he played my theme,
A flamingo’s noir, a fever dream.
Now reels decay in vaults below,
Where celluloid ghosts still softly glow.
And in the shadows, I remain—
The scene they cut, the myth, the flame.
Another monochrome story
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