Monday, April 22, 2013

Another Other


It's a Disease to Be Moved
By Love;
By Another,
Says The Drummer

Free and soft, is the other.
Like clouds on a hot tongue
It’s the weight that so rapidly dissolves,

It’s the ephemeral flicker—
Scattered light through barred gates,
Mathematically unattainable;
 
Shadows of dancers
Clacking clatter of heels; of shoes; of numbers;
Upon rows and rows of lacquered lumber—
All dead and calling to one another,
So they might, for once
Dance together
In rhythm with some greater drum
Which has always thumped louder
Than the serious chorus of lonely droning hums
Which know only how to speak to themselves
And no one else—
 
They cannot understand eachother.
So contagious are we;
To cough and sneeze
In tune with contrarian ideologies
That keeps us in step
With the beat that keeps us separate.






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