Static

The drum stick ricochets off skin

Like the flutter of wasp wings.

They dance – thrust, throw, shove, grind –

Frenzied, hurried. Dirty

They’re pigeons in heat.

The tiny hair on their cheeks has risen.

Accidents happen – gaze, chests, bottoms, lips.

Around them, within them, their own blood

Turns to sweat. The air turns musky;

Their voices, husky. Zoom in, out of focus.

There’s nothing but the sound of them

Breathing. Nothing; but them. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s