“Did you realise Deidre, that gin is little more than vodka with added flavours?” said Lars.
(He was the new barman)
Deidre didn’t realise.
She slurred, “Am-alergit-te-too–mudge-voka!”
Lars immediately felt the job wasn’t for him.
“Did you realise Deidre, that gin is little more than vodka with added flavours?” said Lars.
(He was the new barman)
Deidre didn’t realise.
She slurred, “Am-alergit-te-too–mudge-voka!”
Lars immediately felt the job wasn’t for him.
I took shape… I was like a dolphin with endorphins… an endolfin maybe,
and all the while, somebody was flying around at ground level;
on a rolled up gym mat.
Yet, the children walked by, never blinking an eye; it was the only thing they could do whilst getting lost in the playfields.
It was then, when i had returned; waist deep in pond water; lifting a sorry flower from the aqua; reminding me of intricate, unfolding origami, it bloomed instantly in my wrinkled palm.
Oh… me and the encompassing crowd,
we barked and clapped like a close knit colony of slow-motioned seals; high on friendship and wonder.
Rain with delicate wings
Parachuting
Gently to hand
And in such weather
Even water
Is in search to be held
The whites of her eyes trembled like approaching dual headlights in heat-haze.
Each pinkly foot all a blur; cradled loosely by a pair of slip on cups; adjoined by two nonsynchronous shotguns; lock and loading; firing her across the nightclubs remix of slip and adhesion.
Her slight outline; disappearing/reappearing; a visual offbeat to the paparazzi furore that follow her with discord; some giddy travel through extra-terrestrial lights of seizure.
To a close country border,
Fire doors! she cried, unlikely to be heard… or in thought.
Now here is the swing and hinged odds; potholed by scattered youth with inebriated limbs; blotted by dazed fireflies that danced in the smokes.
Surrendering to official air, the same air that blows your sweat gently across your neck into deltas on your chest, only reminiscent… to be felt.
When gravity falters, this Mother Earth is momentarily off her axis.
Her daughter follows one snaking line of shy neon; in and out of sight, forever smaller, staccato, in black, can paranoid be the night?