Zeomak Zudsee

He came thumping – out of the jam fog, his wooden leg on his left, his eye patch on his right. Antonie! Cinnamon pirate! Salsa shaman! He played with the wind, cried with trumpets, and fed seagulls sugarcane music. Jam! Jam everywhere! Peach on the timpani, guava on the bass. His crew: a dancing goat, three screaming congas, and a captain who only spoke backwards. They sailed through melodies as if through shark soup, lost in bars that no metronome knew. A solo? No – a hurricane of mango and melancholy. Rebellion with rhythm. Revolution in the chorus.