The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
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I have been struggling again of late to keep up with my visiting and commenting etc. The latest inroads into the time available for the keyb...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Monday, 18 March 2013
Twister? Me? Moi?
15/16 Going on 17
Some kind of a slow start
you may suppose. But time
to meet the girls.
Best zoot suit with the wide lapels --
The killer-diller coat with the fedora hat.
(Said Malcom X.)
Slow mooch to The Majestic Mitcham, then
I sign on for a dance sensation/education/something of the sort.
First dance, first session, must have been
a reject from the first experiments
with what they came to call The Twist much later on.
If so, good name. As I recall,
the only things got twisted
were us punters and our feet.
The dancers didn't move, nor did their hips
(unlike the The Twist itself
the leg wrench soon to conquer Christendom.)
At any rate I, Moi, did not take part,
instead consumed a knickerbocker glory by myself.
Next up: The Twelfth Street Rag.
Anathema to me. (Nothing personal. the honky
tonk of Winny Atwel was a favourite --
but dance? Nay, sorry Sis!) I leave...
some things rate more than hormones, I believe.