Part-time musicians

Part-time musicians
tell hilarious jokes during the smoko.
Whisky beards in spectacular fedoras.
Gypsy jazz tramps around Europa
and other 66 confirmed moons of Jupiter,
where Mulholland drive hits the random city.   
I stay in the rain outside, near the bar window.
Vagabonds' cigarettes light up the scaffold of vertical water.
Lonely drops of music
make the night spooky as my reminiscence.
Want to shed viscid words on a silence,
displaying self-presence
for a part time as a rain goes,
for a few virtuoso steps as a stray cat makes,
for another life without you as nobody cares
what's inside.
Hey, Joe, longobard boy, old fellow,
play that junky music. Dance in the neon
light, dance, swaying the hot club,
vividly and harshly, as moths around the light bulb,
until rain erases the mind, until mind turns into ashtray.
Part-time musicians play not everyday but a harsh day.
Part-time musicians: no name, no logo.
Wild horses on staggering stage            
who make incredible jokes during the smoko.