In the early bright of this damned yet blessed universe, the sweet taste of white madness numbs my tongue and cigarette smoke inhaled fills my lungs. At the foot of the bed, that chick’s panties lay over my feet, while sheets are leaking off the bed all over the floor. It goes that way, doesn’t it? We slept with an …
Craving the color white,
The lust for grains of paradise,
The once welcome guests
You chose to entertain,
Become as intruders,
As violators who leave a stain,
On your health, on your soul,
On your sensibilities, they take their toll,
Drying up your emotions,
A desiccation of what you were,
A cracking apart,
Like cement without being cured,
All the pretty colors you enjoyed,
Now all merged
Into achromatic totality,
The bright white envoy
Paired with red,
Into blackness has led,
The craving has ceased
Be at peace.
Rest through removal; of color, of breath, of… – mh clay
Stripes, squares, planes and angles
lots of stripes, black pinstripes, but not Sergeants’ stripes.
Parallel lines and black and white squares
but no squares on the dance floor, undulating.
Music from the speakers blasting pulsing electric vibes
and as they begin to move, subtly,
twist but don’t shout, hands expressive,
self-expression without judgment,
their own music-the Mods-their lives are all
about fashion and all about the thumping beat.
Dance floors are so crowded with bodies
moving in place, eyes closed experiencing rhythms
heard with their unique ears. They weave and
bounce but keep the attitude cool, girls with hair with bangs,
but not the bangs of escalating war
in some foreign land. Boys with hair
grown to length, hanging over collars,
sharp collars that for some will be replaced with drab green.
Clothes not funereal, surprisingly,
not drab checkerboard patterns dazzling the eye, something
so colorful about this dress worn by
kids who had yet to discover hip,
those for whom video was all in the head.
Delight on the disco floor, oblivious to the beat of war. – mh clay
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