Post by Ron Buck (halfshell) on Sept 23, 2009 7:58:38 GMT -5
When you grow old (ver. 8)
your body considers the wind,
but hangs indifferent like a gutted chime
marked by cross-hairs, ready to drop fatal
without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days release memories.
Memories release days:
The incessant chatter of shaky celluloid
out-take reels, cracked over head-flailing sprockets;
the flaunt and flick of candlelit cakes and smiles
pulled from a magician's hat like a raucous burst
of surprised doves,
a blizzard of feathers sucked into the unattended
vortex of throat shaped windows where nothing
paints everything eventually white.
When you grow old (ver. 7)
memories have lives of their own:
The incessant chatter of shaky celluloid
out-take reels, cracked over head-flailing sprockets;
the flaunt and flick of candlelit cakes and smiles
pulled from a magician's hat like a raucous burst
of surprised doves,
a blizzard of feathers sucked into the unattended
vortex of throat shaped windows where nothing
paints everything eventually white.
When you grow old,
your body considers the wind,
but hangs indifferent like a gutted chime
caught in the cross-hairs, ready to drop fatal
without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days release memories.
Memories release days:
A jitterbug boggle of remainders and reminders
in pursuit of scribbled bits of useless paper,
tributaries of self-effaced ink, and the end
of the world as we know it.
When you grow old (rev. 6)
memories take on lives of their own:
The incessant chatter of a shaky celluloid
out-take reel, cracked over head-flailing sprockets;
the flaunt and flick of candlelit cakes and smiles
pulled from a magician's hat like a raucous burst
of surprised doves,
a blizzard of feathers sucked into the unattended
vortex of throat shaped windows where nothing
paints everything eventually white.
Your body considers the wind, but hangs indifferent
like a gutted chime caught in the cross-hairs,
ready to drop fatal without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days shower memories.
Memories shower days:
A jitterbug boggle of remainders and
reminders in pursuit of shredded bits
of paper, tributaries of self-effaced ink,
and the end of the world as we know it.
When you grow old
memories take on lives of their own:
The incessant chatter of brittle celluloid
spluttered over head-flailing sprockets
with flashes of candlelit cakes and smiles
that melt into bursts of white vacancy
flapped out and away through the vortex
of throat shaped windows open to air.
Your body considers the wind,
but hangs indifferent like a gutted chime
caught in the cross-hairs, ready to drop
fatal without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days shower memories.
Memories shower days:
A jitterbug boggle of remainders and
reminders in pursuit of shredded bits
of paper, tributaries of self-effaced ink,
and the end of the world as we know it.
your body considers the wind,
but hangs indifferent like a gutted chime
marked by cross-hairs, ready to drop fatal
without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days release memories.
Memories release days:
The incessant chatter of shaky celluloid
out-take reels, cracked over head-flailing sprockets;
the flaunt and flick of candlelit cakes and smiles
pulled from a magician's hat like a raucous burst
of surprised doves,
a blizzard of feathers sucked into the unattended
vortex of throat shaped windows where nothing
paints everything eventually white.
When you grow old (ver. 7)
memories have lives of their own:
The incessant chatter of shaky celluloid
out-take reels, cracked over head-flailing sprockets;
the flaunt and flick of candlelit cakes and smiles
pulled from a magician's hat like a raucous burst
of surprised doves,
a blizzard of feathers sucked into the unattended
vortex of throat shaped windows where nothing
paints everything eventually white.
When you grow old,
your body considers the wind,
but hangs indifferent like a gutted chime
caught in the cross-hairs, ready to drop fatal
without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days release memories.
Memories release days:
A jitterbug boggle of remainders and reminders
in pursuit of scribbled bits of useless paper,
tributaries of self-effaced ink, and the end
of the world as we know it.
When you grow old (rev. 6)
memories take on lives of their own:
The incessant chatter of a shaky celluloid
out-take reel, cracked over head-flailing sprockets;
the flaunt and flick of candlelit cakes and smiles
pulled from a magician's hat like a raucous burst
of surprised doves,
a blizzard of feathers sucked into the unattended
vortex of throat shaped windows where nothing
paints everything eventually white.
Your body considers the wind, but hangs indifferent
like a gutted chime caught in the cross-hairs,
ready to drop fatal without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days shower memories.
Memories shower days:
A jitterbug boggle of remainders and
reminders in pursuit of shredded bits
of paper, tributaries of self-effaced ink,
and the end of the world as we know it.
When you grow old
memories take on lives of their own:
The incessant chatter of brittle celluloid
spluttered over head-flailing sprockets
with flashes of candlelit cakes and smiles
that melt into bursts of white vacancy
flapped out and away through the vortex
of throat shaped windows open to air.
Your body considers the wind,
but hangs indifferent like a gutted chime
caught in the cross-hairs, ready to drop
fatal without a sound left behind.
All becomes the same.
Days shower memories.
Memories shower days:
A jitterbug boggle of remainders and
reminders in pursuit of shredded bits
of paper, tributaries of self-effaced ink,
and the end of the world as we know it.
