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words tumbling from my typing fingers
like raining, no - hailing, drumbeats spilling
from the Flogging Molly drummer
I have no message but a feeling, no theme but a song,
nothing to say but the heartbeat
of the world,
a poem typed
to the ferocious upbeat rhythm
of a favorite song.
pause for the lilting piccolo
tippled and drippled with little whistles
I like the word piccolo.
"devil's dance floor" beating on my brain
nothing else can penetrate the heartbeats
realigning themselves
to the rhythm of
this song
my synapses exploding in time,
nothing else but this rocking through
my electric guitar nervous system
we're doing anatomy in biology class.
pause for the sweeping parts, sweeping
over my muscles
forcing me to form my body to the
winding beating pulsating
rhythm of this song
this flouncing kilt of the universe
these jangling chains, not
of binding, but
of wealth -
silver, always silver,
never
gold.
swept up and around
up, down, molding like clay -
no, more like water
when you swirl your hands through it.
turbulence - good word.
bad when you're in an airplane. ugh.
"swing a little more, on the devil's dance floor"
well I don't know the devil
but he's got a nice
dance floor.
third time I've restarted this song.
maybe I should just finish the poem.
once again
dancing, jouncing,
leaping up higher higher
fall just to leap back up
hair falling all over me -
my ponytail holder is no match
for the rhythm of the world.
or
at least
the current rhythm of me.
all over.
collapse, just to start it again another day.
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