Twisted Reach
21 September 2011 20:24![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesThe twisted reach of a bent pier bringing Rio closer to your heart. Each branch of your basketball-sneaker heart creaking in the cold night outside a bedroom window. Black wood perfect for magician’s wands making fingers for haunted treehouse hair. The clown of your expectation will fornicate with the wind and nothing will come of it. Each shot and save, each drop and catch, each risk and triumph. They all add the same years as failures. Time excuses clocks and sailors only. This paper conclusion wrapping wet newspaper around your boxer fists is only fit for taking cover.
If there were memories in the fishbowl that broke last night, they were gone by morning, dry and dead on the living room carpet. I’ve seen locked doors turn into parachutes with the wink of a cream shoulder. Mice gain priest collars and Hollywood sunglasses haunt glint-eyed starlets. Bus tickets covered with fairy dust, small-town escape hatches drenched in the naïve optimism that starts the best and worst stories the world has to offer. For every moment above the clouds, there are shallow graves aplenty. Basic computing makes mercy into business, ruining the profession of saints. Even dogs will know the ending before it limps into view, reaching out with long, dry fingers the texture of cork.
It’s a ballad, these points that glimmer for eighty years on average here. Small, lonely fireworks making a mockery of kindness and celebrating greed while looking to the future with popcorn eyes. Souls become bathtubs where people get clean and leave behind dirty water in someone else, causing thrown-out babies. These rags belonged to a jester’s sideshow daughter. This stone was pried from a contortionist’s ring. And you are a focal point to an oil spill.
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If there were memories in the fishbowl that broke last night, they were gone by morning, dry and dead on the living room carpet. I’ve seen locked doors turn into parachutes with the wink of a cream shoulder. Mice gain priest collars and Hollywood sunglasses haunt glint-eyed starlets. Bus tickets covered with fairy dust, small-town escape hatches drenched in the naïve optimism that starts the best and worst stories the world has to offer. For every moment above the clouds, there are shallow graves aplenty. Basic computing makes mercy into business, ruining the profession of saints. Even dogs will know the ending before it limps into view, reaching out with long, dry fingers the texture of cork.
It’s a ballad, these points that glimmer for eighty years on average here. Small, lonely fireworks making a mockery of kindness and celebrating greed while looking to the future with popcorn eyes. Souls become bathtubs where people get clean and leave behind dirty water in someone else, causing thrown-out babies. These rags belonged to a jester’s sideshow daughter. This stone was pried from a contortionist’s ring. And you are a focal point to an oil spill.
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