Dancers must have two extreme qualities
Intense desire , gritty fortitude , and raw courage .
. . . one two three , OK , dancers must have three extreme qualities .
Dancers actually do break a leg upon the stage
At parties they are the flight of the hummingbirds . Amazing what they do .
Their tight limber bodies often make me wonder how I would do in bed with them
My ambition was always tied to a rope that held me back
Because when I danced (after twenty-four bottles of beer)
It was on my face I always fell flat
Through broken glass,
Blood in ribbons
On the grass.
False laughter fills
The air with smiles,
A collection of fake happiness
For a short and precious while.
Appluad the graceless efforts
Of the sinning ballerinas
As the crowd cackles
Like the call of a hyena.
'Sometimes things just don't make sense and ignoring things won't make you dense, but some people can't say no, so if someday our minds do blow, from curiosity and such, we will no longer keep in our clutch, reality and questions thought, and hopefully we needn't sought the answers, non-factual, we've been taught.'
Answers are for dancers:
Never step left,
always step right.
Right on the course,
where loyalist fight.
Right in the angelic pose that they do.
it'd be better if you weren't you.
Just act like they act and you can get by,
do as they do and never ask why.
Answers I give you my dancers,
answers I give you to move the right way.
Answers I give you my dancers,
because with my answers you never will stray.
But if you do,
I assure you,
you've clipped the strings,
and do know that it means
you will shunned,
an existence unseen,
by the people who dance,
the people who sing,
by all the people pulled by my string.
Dancers can't have eating disorders.
We are meant to be thin.
We are made this way
We are made to hide food
to throw it up
As long as no one sees us
As long as we can fake it
Cause as dancers
We have to fake it till we make it
And we aren't going to make
it if we are as fat as pigs.
People don't like watching hogs dance.
Don't worry the mirrors will tell us if we are the size of a stick or a stump.
So no I don't have an eating disorder
Dancers can't have those.
We are created this way.
The dance of the dancers is
Light and free
The skirt go whoosh
One watcher frowns,
He is frowned upon.
And pulled away
Another criea and they
Check first: happy or sad?
"Sad" they take him
Where they go
The narrator knows
To be treated
The way he dances for me
reminds me of sweet kisses passed
and flames licking at the corners
of impassioned nothings
that light me up
The floors are so far flung
and I am missing my partner
all I can do is watch him dance behind my eyelids
sitting on the side of my own dance floor
If your sadness were an ocean
plagued with typhoons,
and you were being thrashed around by the waves
and beaten across the rocks;
then I would be the fool who jumps in after you
However, your sadness is not the ocean
it's merely the ground,
and I cannot save you
because we are two bald eagles
talons locked, eyes focused
hurling towards it
So if we die,
we die together
and we can both write stone words
" Sadness overcame"
but if we manage to lift each other up
just before we hit the ground
then we've done a beautiful dance
and managed to pirouette away from our doom.
Letters of old dancers dancing to music, touching undone turbulents, formulating makeshift sentences, releasing their fury onto the world, the saints who have done no harm but are forced to make all the decisions, delivering daggers, of fury, in their brass outfits, off iron loviung, of bows and arrows locking into the hearsts of men and women in the same place, of peopple, yes, of humans loving intimacy, of loving dominance and power and in acceptance, of superiority or infiriority, clowning at majestic paragraphs, that are meaningful then meaningless, that are gibber gabber, edgar allen poe, allen ginsburg, allen allen allen clowning in your ear get back there in a fury! make of an echo and make out of a whisper! and do and do and do
Jolted, ready for action, body ready with a menacing pride, ready to unleash some kind of chemical, what kind of chemical, of brass of of object, some sort of metal recurring in me, let it go, release the fury, how to learn to let go proprery, let it go with some sort of a grace, doesn’t seem to be entirely possible, how does one really, really, let go? exactly? how do I know when my concioesnneseneses which I can never spell right is actually functioning? when is it actually functioning at the proper measures? I ask this humbly, as if talking to my therapist, who is thrilled with his PHD, who really really really wants to help me, and understand my disease, my disorder, where did this guy come from? He’s full of grey hair and he knows nothing and everything and his advice is that of a weight which drags me down and sombers my tone, but is left a note in my boats prolonged brigade of bridges, bringing me back to basics