The dream of not thinking

Author: joe

Tuesday, 26 January, 2010 - 21:14

The river of sounds tumbling from a mouth into ears, spilt in ink on rough paper, splashed on solid light, a hope forced through the straits of sense.

The nerves of a lion leaping on its prey, the giant mammal calving, the fish tensed on the rod, the tree that is, the world that pulses over time, whole, not parted. The journey.

To be strong as an ox when another's iron will at last gives, surrendering a weakness to chance, and in reply, to bow a proud neck till it bends like a reed. A lover's touch.

Hearts that power arms, hands grasping through the thin film of the thick air, breath that meets in the mess of a kiss, lips that overload with more than can be heard.

The brush of a limb barely sensible but by the faint flesh of the other that craves it, the dusting glance of a fingertip that sparks against the body, the feathered skin goose-pimpled, the silence snapping, the fear hunted by safety, the eyes speaking.

The dream of not thinking.

Categories: not-thinking,
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