She came from the Sahara just to touch
the microphones of every traffic button pusher, to run slipshod across the
slapdash that seems to follow such absolvent things. The saxophones act like
klaxons in her head and chant the merry-go-round tune within tinned rags and
other military jingoist uniforms. The body double is crying in the corner and
his because has been brought by a women who smells faintly like his mouth
mother from the picture on the wall: MOST WANTED. She sees him and pities him
like a knee jerking forward in the face of a zombie. She would have hunted this
sort of man in a previous life though she isn’t quite sure how long she would
have waited for him to pick himself up and do something about his troubled
whimpering. It’s just a silly faze often ascribed to fillies in their first
winter.
Don’t get me wrong though I don’t know this women or the hums
she sighs or the bees that she keeps when none of the aslant are looking
dressed up and reproached. She was predisposed to living in awkward conditions
and this meant that she could never really speak her mind around Canadians with
socks in their coat pockets. Life has done enough to her for us to let go of
our wet hamstrings and give this poor madam a chance to catch her breath in an
economic harshness that destroys many mellows from multiple shatter points. She
was mild within a mere three week period and has since never so much as tapped
on her original potential for loud alarum calls. She has set her sights on
becoming a gravedigger, known to be a most opulent career.
The miles
are coming along nicely, eating sweets and sticking the backside into the half
dozen air for minimal effect and effigy. The warped spacious facial is joined
by a studio audience in basking in the ratings of page turners and anonymous
tippers of hedonic celebrity. As are we all, as are we all. The plucking of
guitars washes like most big things do in the rain and calls up insurance
companies to eat fish and chip records whilst pooping the fine print of
electric bills. Wedding bells roar out into the night and white cups are flung
in the air where they twinkle as they shatter and feed misconception into the
wrong memory slot. The game is armed and running again just in time for the
sinus infection to lay waste to the team. They're motto is a duck on a plank
with ink on its back. We hope against hope that the fixtures will whore
themselves out a little more and face the downpour with righteous chin action.
She waits
like a HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG poster, curling at the edges with a fading muzzle
in between. Her black curved fingers might as well be letters of the forest and
the pole could just as easily be the Northern Wind. It's coming along nicely.
Ten years, definitely.
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