Sunday, 6 February 2011

Vindaloo

Tiny voices undulate the wall making path to deaf ears on the opposite edge. Head ringing at the buzz of the drum roll aching to ignore the fallaciousness. They began to laugh high notes and shrieking, all the more reason to smash the wooden stick to the colourful, plastic bubble while concentration diverts to the brown bed already, the day was done yet nobody lulls to sleep. Tiptoes can be heard from a short distance, could it be? Improbable. Probability equals to none. It ends when the light shuts up its rotten palate. Faint whispers of Tubthumping in the background, beginning to wallow in disparaging animosity shaking the foundation of nature and discourse. It shallowly disappears for a second. It fades to darkness, fades to black, fades to surreal, evolving and spinning, hardening its carapace. Horns are blown and thorns from roses become tongue in winter solstice. Black is to red and blue is to yellow. Narcotic, neurotic, episodic. The deformed masks found electrolytes in midday, now recharged and bashfully prepared. Black is back and back to back.

Search and destroy