Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Fusiform Gyrus, RHYTHMS I-IV

Apothecary Cluck, image by Irene Koronas 


When there was a real rhythm and pace to follow an insane drummer on the top of a hill vibrant hair standing on end bodily fluids smeared on his face as he pounds out a beat that you can’t help but follow lust and passion hope and life desire and death.


Studied and pondered like an old and complicated map nosily unfurled and indelicately fanned where naïve wisps coalesce and the background canvas begs for release from a silhouette existence apex and terminus together as one vision colliding. 


Like demonic gulls tuning in dispatching deciphering blending bending frequency caws memetic apothecary clucks raspy parps territorial wingspans street preacher human computer code moralist hoards compete to police the dump valve.


Her speech the sounds the movements of her mouth and jaw the glistening of her lips as they slide over teeth in a smile the soft contortions of her tongue forming words she is a door when others are windows but I have lost that key.

—Fusiform Gyrus