An atom strike, be it touch or taste or smell, or wave, be it sound or light (perhaps too are but atom strikes) has dented this coiled solid woodlouse sheath. A knock on outer gate that wakes this filter.
A pinpoint prick of high pitched precision pulse vibrates my inner drum, vibrato rumbles my tiny ear orchestra and wakes the lop haired maestro in shambled overgrown tuxedo. His job ever-ending he must place the rowdie percussion neatly on to the sheet music. Open to page 12. Score.
A deep gutteral waft of brown warm midnight winking cigerette silk bounds upon this over smoked over fed over raw tounge. My body is aware, i feel my lungs, maestro turns to page 7 and 14 and notates yet another inhale, ever so slightly out of sink with pinpoint pitch.
Scratchy soft cloth pulls anticlockwise to arm grass, making erect as though millitant. Back to page 4. An odd place for a creshendo.
The eyeball buzz of neonbacklit ‘lectic light, lightdark words on lightlight soft soaped screen, oh more real than real. A false truth, yet down she goes, page 19. A constant undertone so rythmic it become one low dense frequency and disappears to background noise.
A bizarre score that can never be heard again, although logged and jotted to recall at will,. But the recollection rewrites the ever on going song. A thankless pointless task yet maestro has his job, but what if, what if he sat and listened not as scribe or pen-man but as audience once more, the music would be lost for prosperity but maestro would be………..? Living? Enjoying? Really listening? Awake? Who knows.
Turn to page 6, 14, 12, 23, 4 and log this 57 seconds scan reading upon your own score. I have added a little music to your pretty song, i hope it was in key. x