The Bomber And The Dancer

A stealth bomber flew overhead the city, searching for targets. These are various protesters from different activist groups. Playing like some repetive pop song.

Yet the song was nothing like the one in her mind.

When you have voices inside your mind, the clock is ticking. Now your dance and unwind. Spinning, spinning. With the midnight hour gone, the shadows now stir about. Midnight gives comfort, And not, now, temptation to shout. Shout Wanderer in the midnight light, by the midnight starlight. Behold the old shadows, as they wander into the light all on the wall. Lost in a dreary life walking into the darkest night. As I come walking I seek the comfort, sleep comes soon.

Life is a pair of clogs tossed on the floor, the sound on floor tumbling like a bowling pin. Tumbling, tumbling. The midnight hour is now past, the handbook is burned singing of old carols torturing young winter mind. Temporary pleasures of a measure fraught with much pain a dreary life profane wincing, wincing. Diaries, how they can explain your worries. And yet are not always meant to pursuade, as one fantasizes about girls under the blade:

The flesh is so very tinder, as one pokes it waiting for its split. The neck so long, long and slender limping, limping.

The mind is in a long trance, for the girl of France. Lusting after that neck, poking gently with my teeth biting. Biting, that tender neck. The blood flowing down my teeth, for the girl of wine fields and sheep. The sensation of a blade going down her neck, the enraptured trance wrapping, her tapping on that wooden floor. With her tap shoes, to funeral marches and Hurdy Gurdys. For her life, was a whetted canvas tossed to the floor. Painted with all the ink in the world.

The raindrops on the floor forming midnight clouds, covering the cavern with the only light a lamp lit lighting the way:

This is her story, red blood resting on the floor. The bites remain locked into the fleshy breasts. She then winced.

She wanders the darkness, searching infinitely for something missing. Searching for some vague pleasure. Some pleasure the midnight beyond. As she waits for the noise outside to go away.

In the distance, she heard thunder claps. Then a rumble.

Soon she woke up in the hospital, as if from a dream.

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