Monday, 6 August 2012

The cicadas teach the sky to tapdance

What has become of you, sweet girl, as you sit listening to the first of the night’s cicadas teaching the dusk how to tapdance?

Can you feel a feral tomcat clawing at the strings of your soul?

Does the day-glo pink streak that flirts with your bloodstream start to pulse a little harder; do the veins in your wrists take on a rosy glow?

Are you gawking down the barrel of the television or leaking the winks in your eyes to an ever-ungrateful internet?

And what of tomorrow? Does the threat of Monday ooze into the night before, does the evening blush grey at the thought of the chores for the week?

I want to tell you that you get to choose.

You don’t have to run these thoughts through your head, again and again, until they are soft and worn as Penelope’s cloth.

You get to fling the fear into a park you’ve stacked with wrecking balls and rev up the crusher and watch their metal spines crunch.

Sit and listen to those lovestruck cicadas, endlessly bouncing on their mechanical bedsprings.

Take your grabbing fists and send a lipsticked postcard to decorum yelling GOODBYE SUCKER, because when you tire of waiting for life to unfurl it’s time to get snatchy.

Here: have a heart as light and dandy as August dandelions.

Here: snip the centimetres from your hem and let your knees strike a deal with the tarmac.

Then take take take of this dewy, dusky night; take its barroom sweet-hot-breath conversations and its bucktoothed girls with their daisy chain smiles. Take serenading to the constellations and take another cigarette and take a drink with a sparkler gushing tiny stars and lightning bolts and promises from Zeus.

You’re too pretty to be folded neatly and closed in the drawer. Spin through the night, sweet girl; spin until you can’t stand and you crumple on the floor.

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