Mine’s a sort of light, musical, dancing
tread, a never-ending thread of notes
on a string, a slight ring upon the ears,
I like to think of it as:
cheeky, small, charming.
An underground solo orchestra
the music of my footsteps,
only I can play
and we’ll never be able to play each other’s tunes.
When your knees crack real good
you’re locked in a skin of sound.
Every bone in my spine cracks
crystalising form in bubbling molten blood,
Can you hear?
Breath is a knife to dissect unsynchronized rhythms.
In an empty house, we miss each other by seconds.
The sound of doors banging.
Footsteps on hollow floorboards.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 1:49 PM UTC
Mine’s a sort of light, musical, dancing
tread, a never-ending thread of notes
on a string, a slight ring upon the ears,
I like to think of it as:
cheeky, small, charming.
An underground solo orchestra
the music of my footsteps,
only I can play
and we’ll never be able to play each other’s tunes.
When your knees crack real good
you’re locked in a skin of sound.
Every bone in my spine cracks
crystalising form in bubbling molten blood,
Can you hear?
Breath is a knife to dissect unsynchronized rhythms.
In an empty house, we miss each other by seconds.
The sound of doors banging.
Footsteps on hollow floorboards.