Of dance and squishing bodies
I liked the sound of a title joyfully borrowed from W B Yeats.
I want you to reflect on how an entire city was stripped of its inhabitants.
How I gave them a chance to be this lively audience to my dancing whim.
How they genuinely look like worms under the soft caress of a spring sun.
One instant they were all walking about their businesses,
kissing, shopping, grumbling over the traffic,
A pandemonium, paced by deafening thumps,
incredulous screams turned to frightful splattering,
ornamented by a melodious and all-encompassing
feminine voice singing these words:
♪ Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from Ipanema goes walking and
When she passes, each one she passes goes “ah” ♬
“I’m martyr to a motion not my own.”
Happily borrowed from WillEdgecomb who borrowed it from someone who borrowed it from the vast flow of valuable thoughts.
He’d been struggling his best for the past ten seconds,
running and jumping, jumping and tottering, only to fall and be blown away
to another random direction by the unescapable trampling of relentless heels.
What little time he had between one heavy stomping
and the another was used to think about the innane absurdity
of it all and of course, survival.
A massive gush of air literaly fell on him from the skies.
This was it. His turn.
While his limp body was twisted and hurled,
his every joints tested to their limits,
his breath dead cut in the middle…
He saw her for the first time and the last time: