Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Busker

one, two, three. head swaying side to side from side to side. eyes closed, staring at back of eyelids. in the dark colours form to follow the note. red, red, yellow cool purple. tumbling over one another racing to be forwards, grabbing their tails in an endless conga dance. the beat speeds colours blur into lights intensity to equal the passion of the musician's breath. rumba on the sidewalk, heels dug deep. grinding in to push out the horn of fire. you can feel in extremities the warmth of pulse of the notes. drumming, thumping, pounding. hitting the rhythm of the natural vibrations. at the point where bridges sway. concrete melts away to elastic acid. you give him a dollar but you owe him your soul.

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