Monday, February 12, 2007
Labels: Art, Revolving Doors
Thursday, February 01, 2007
He felt like having a drink.
Strong stiff ones. Like pretty maids all in a row.
He wanted the buzz. The heightened sense of everything.
The live band, cranks up the drum microphone.
Weaving traffic like colored ribbons in the breeze.
All roads lead gently downhill. Cars lurk like ghosts at every bend.
Every turn takes you home. To share your bed with sleep.
Like a fly in a whirlpool.
Like a sticky traffic signal he thinks of her.
Weak. Amative. Green.
He pushes hard, fast and faster.
The night breeze like hornets in a tunnel.
Floyd on the stereo. A melee of then, now and never.
He squares up for a fist cuff.
I am the champion of the world he says.
The gambler frowns on the odds.
He cusses and he waits.
Calls them out, one by one.
He digs his heels into the night.
No footsteps. No silhouettes.
He spits into the cloud of dust.
The bells toll.
"Last drinks! Last drinks!"
The Abbot and the black heart.
"Its time" they say.
Time for a hand brake turn.
Labels: Free Form, Revolving Doors
