Night light. The road to Whyalla, South Australia.
Listening to Music, Getting Horny
The air is acerbic, bitter,
abominable in its annoyance—
but then, the music.
It hums, a mellifluous aurora,
diaphanous as gossamer, sliding
into my ears with astonishing aplomb.
I do not want to be here,
beleaguered by the banalities
of daily life—its atrocious hullabaloo,
the appalling humdrum—but the sound,
the sound is different.
It is always different.
The beat is a clandestine caress,
as capricious as it is compelling.
I feel it move through me,
not delicately, no.
It hits with a benevolent violence,
awakening something deeply familiar.
An ineffable ache stirs,
somewhere between ribcage and hips,
a strange, sublime longing
that becomes suddenly unavoidable.
It is this: the music touches,
then taunts—now casual,
now intense, now furious,
moving like lithe fingers across skin.
My thoughts blur, my body answers.
A dreadful conundrum:
to sit still or to feel
everything.
The melody does not care,
it continues, deftly, deliberately,
as though it knows
what it does, how
it weaves me into
its winsome cacophony.
And I am left
with this astonishing ambivalence:
horrendous and beautiful,
as the beat plays on
and I, always, want more.
Comments