![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Standing Evasion
5 March 2011 01:07I give a standing evasion to the grunting half-gutter; letting skillables dribble out through the teeming sifter of my mouth. A near-vana making my edifice complex clearly visible, a hades of hot nights but your cold shoulders are soft. You’ve won this game of chance with support hose, a rubber neck and pure gumption. If it weren’t for the saddles you’re using for shoulder pads, I’d think you were a golden horseshoe-laying silly goose.
You can appreciate the shattering cymbal of his mind and the bleeding air mail that circles every thought arrowing and minnowing around his head. It is the airspace of genius but it has no radar. Ideas full of passengers go down in flames or crash into each other regularly. If it wasn’t for tuna sandwiches and those arms of yours, he’d become a child made of missing posters.
Some jaws are hinges for waterslides. Some tongues are the kind that wrap kindling up so winter cold that it will never burn. Some lips are only built to tempt, mock, sneer, and pout in a parade of boxer’s promises.
But his set of teeth cuts the sentences into bullets. Those hollow cheeks frame a wind tunnel for aerodynamic language. Throats are bloodied in battle but only the strongly-worded survive. An armour stolen from the same dictionaries that haunted the questing author-minds of Shakespeare, Fat Tony, Rocky Shores, Cheese Louise, and Barney Rubble.
There are baton handoffs that make sense and then there are the bullets that find eight-year-olds in springtime, splattering ice cream that hasn’t even had time to start melting. The yoink of cancer, the screech of car tire interruptus, and the unwanted surprise of the scythe. Your relationship will hunker down beneath the blankets and take the punishment the outside world throws. You’ll laugh right up until it hurts. But know this:
Be kind to the crows and the flies and the worms.
They’ll return the favour.
tags
You can appreciate the shattering cymbal of his mind and the bleeding air mail that circles every thought arrowing and minnowing around his head. It is the airspace of genius but it has no radar. Ideas full of passengers go down in flames or crash into each other regularly. If it wasn’t for tuna sandwiches and those arms of yours, he’d become a child made of missing posters.
Some jaws are hinges for waterslides. Some tongues are the kind that wrap kindling up so winter cold that it will never burn. Some lips are only built to tempt, mock, sneer, and pout in a parade of boxer’s promises.
But his set of teeth cuts the sentences into bullets. Those hollow cheeks frame a wind tunnel for aerodynamic language. Throats are bloodied in battle but only the strongly-worded survive. An armour stolen from the same dictionaries that haunted the questing author-minds of Shakespeare, Fat Tony, Rocky Shores, Cheese Louise, and Barney Rubble.
There are baton handoffs that make sense and then there are the bullets that find eight-year-olds in springtime, splattering ice cream that hasn’t even had time to start melting. The yoink of cancer, the screech of car tire interruptus, and the unwanted surprise of the scythe. Your relationship will hunker down beneath the blankets and take the punishment the outside world throws. You’ll laugh right up until it hurts. But know this:
Be kind to the crows and the flies and the worms.
They’ll return the favour.
tags