17 July 2005
девочка
send a thousand russkyas
from a hundred villages
and a Nikon D70
turn up their heads and let flee
onto th empty fields
into 1/1000th of a shutter
i look around
th human disco is in my head
where natural light is adequate
history has red-eye as of dawn
heavier than i dreamt
walking onto th empty dancefloor
out of the darkroom
into speedlights & blind thrown profiles
( it's all going on in me
so you know
a perpetual state of internal confession
all over and over in a single
down th road of stones
hills of russian words are blown
deeper & deeper into th evening villages
of sweet hay & heavy air
passing by my strange language
caught in a ripe young jaw
looking for a change
was once taking pictures
w/ her in a barn ,
th field danced on in complete darkness
to th clang of distant cowbells
under-exposed beneath a dirty blonde moon ,
trees gave th impression of clawing
deep scratches in closed centuries
th walls of th barn are charcoal now
rubbed over and over by th winds of hand ; my has since
traced her blackening edges ; each eye w/o a lens ;
3 images per second
on some empty floor
the clock takes of it's dress
and poses
from a hundred villages
and a Nikon D70
turn up their heads and let flee
onto th empty fields
into 1/1000th of a shutter
i look around
th human disco is in my head
where natural light is adequate
history has red-eye as of dawn
heavier than i dreamt
walking onto th empty dancefloor
out of the darkroom
into speedlights & blind thrown profiles
( it's all going on in me
so you know
a perpetual state of internal confession
all over and over in a single
down th road of stones
hills of russian words are blown
deeper & deeper into th evening villages
of sweet hay & heavy air
passing by my strange language
caught in a ripe young jaw
looking for a change
was once taking pictures
w/ her in a barn ,
th field danced on in complete darkness
to th clang of distant cowbells
under-exposed beneath a dirty blonde moon ,
trees gave th impression of clawing
deep scratches in closed centuries
th walls of th barn are charcoal now
rubbed over and over by th winds of hand ; my has since
traced her blackening edges ; each eye w/o a lens ;
3 images per second
on some empty floor
the clock takes of it's dress
and poses
# posted by hardyf : 21:45
