In Lounge Lizard Land her cup of Pimm's tumbles, and he's the busy pilot and navigator. Her lengthy bet on her heavy breather flourishes, devised as a caress, a gesture pointing to the heaven that awaits - sweetheart, sack and ravage the vista - it's your privilege! Those pub-game visionaries with their dopey swing, always just missing the bonus bonus, and the free gift. The heart-break outfit boss doodles a trick map puzzle numeral - sober, you can focus it, but hit, you lapse - and one shot too many outfits these misfits with a blurring charm they try vainly to dine out on. He addresses the jug full of hock then senses the engine pitch rising to a shriek - his pulse pulsing - the apricot Comrade Lounge at thirty thousand feet, now she's basking in a madhouse hug -Pinball: that high-tech twitter digit tongue among the raw discourse of the bar. Her slant is Magyar, each stroke a voodoo solution to the older members' boredom freak grief mode, each hit so slick it bickers briefly with the target then shatters the top kill record again and again, but in a mode so silky - no, flaxen, like a thief whisper your nerves detect as heresy - his day-dream bopping in time to the little bells, the swing children shrieking at the shuffling hoons who populate this forecourt of paradise and roaring when the rocket knocks the gong - hey, Fuckhead, do that again!
|The East Village Poetry Web