Moonrise on the desert floor. Rocky crags in the distance gain a deeper shadow. And our eyeballs rotate. Searching for signs of life in each other. In the deep grooves of our face. In the leathery skin. Search for. Some sort of. Movement. Movement that belies. Or. Movement that confirms. The inside will.
As the stars gently revolve. As the ghost honeybees pollinate our lips. As the delicate stingrays slip through the sky. I, and you, bring our skin closer. Closing in. Closer to you. To me. That’s when the holes open up. And the piglet colonies push their noses out. Hesitate. Suck sibilant first breaths. And. blind, the colonies merge in a swirling pink mass that expands and takes our throats deep to the left of everything and we are left swaying, giddy, slightly sick in the pits of our stomach.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
Ant, Love it. You sent a version of this to me a couple of years ago when I was collecting stories for a dance. do you remember? It is funny because I actually used a short passage in my show. "And the piglet colonies push their noses out. Hesitate. Suck ... slightly sick in the pits of our stomach." I'll see if I can find a video copy of the piece and send it to you.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing. I am traveling now, but will send stories soon. :)
Megan