Monday, 27 February 2017

Scurrying Ants

My mind and spirit soar brushing the vaulted ceiling.
The music in the stadium propels us all into a blissed out 
state of being. It feels as if my skull has been opened up wide
causing me to lose all control of my brain. I begin to feel woozy 
and terribly strange. My limbs jump about as if possessed, 
perhaps they no longer belong to me. 
My circular eyes flicker and snap into ugly 
snare drums untuned. My thick brown hair rattles
around like spinning crash cymbals close to breaking.
My ears are engulfed in fuzzy bass-lines 
humorous and light. My arms and legs now utterly foreign to me
are moved about by discordant guitar chords
that patter through the air like overweight pigeons. 
The elevated human crowd are now lost wandering
in a different sonic dimension. All of us 
smell of over-priced liquor and burnt cigarettes.
The crowd sways and splutters like swarming plankton.
Despite my feeling of being underwater I continue to 
sip my plain lemony drink in my recycled paper cup. 
Finally the band takes to the stage for their final encore,
with what little energy they have left to give. 
After a time the lights switch on abruptly ruining 
the show, it's playful illusion broken in two.

Immediately everyone is reduced to scurrying ants. 

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