In one of my more astute moments
everything became an arm
and anything could sink into it:
rivers, stones, banks, virgins.
As music fell into the arm
what was left of its notes
deflated, though songs
still hummed their colours.
Rhythm was the next to go.
dancers still danced, a pickup
still played the radio.
When smell finally descended into the arm
It did so alone, and walked backward, breathing
into the nostrils above, the nest of hairs picking up
the signals everything left behind.
Oh, I read this already. Is it a poem? (???) Mwahhhahahahahaha! gah.
Posted by: Joy at January 11, 2005 11:36 PMhaha. I took about three minutes of my time and tried to come up with something convoluted and "sensory" enough to speak of the devil's hair-balling tongue on a Wednesday afternoon between 3 and 4 pm.
Posted by: matt at January 12, 2005 11:53 PM