Pound This Night Write

Wrought and transcribed:

The night pounds hard and heavy in light weighted view flashing before my eyes can hear what motion my pen can hold. The senses that consider my observations in check wear the ambience like a mantle of earth shifting in tectonic stretch of long unused energy across the touch your own perceptive view as these words bring the silent bedlam to your static nerves. Very merry, quiet can vary, how does your guarding crow fly on about the infusion intrusion of overwhelming aural displacement? Dance.
Offers advanced of shared music-movement hold sweet frustration and considered situational realities with the home front winning by a lens lied, for what looks good is not necessarily what it appears to be. Denial with a smile fares better than to part from the heart. But that is the way the cookie is supposed to bounce, no? Energized, rhythmic cavorting amidst the structured vibrations of impulsioned air tends to be a team sport, but gender paired, gender opposed or general free-for-all participants are left to their own devices together individually in the infectious flashing of the ongoing moment. Dance.
Recognition holds a touch of attentive action, then is gone with the flow as fearlessly flavored magic wands itself by, the frills of percolated wrythm, the (e)motion of coordinated gestures, the familiarity of the broadcast selections all reinforce enthusiasm beyond the already frantic involvement in the night woven conjured spell. Rock and role. Put your hands in the air (feel the fusion) and let the wrist of your occupation hold its breath in the touch of your palm. Point and trip the light fantastic, the view is captivating in tempoed turn, alluring, hypnotic, but the action is best left to its own devolvement and determination in the spurious moment. Impartations of manifest departations follow the lead they provide to ride and fly; Hello: goodbye. Dance.
Alone again, nature a lea to cultivate in my independent see, when a sudden passing motion returns to smile within the active response of my over-rising participation, and I follow like a dream floored in its own excision. A query (as to my now solitary situation) led the extracted lead out and the lead weighed in step after step in shadow to take to that very dream in real time and situation, caught in the light of heavy din and dun (the debt of my years given credit for a later, stiffened payment), getting down to the grounded response of (dated, I’m sure) style. Dance.
Lost in limbo, bending time backwards while shuffling forth under the cultural discrepancies of generational anomaly, the rocking steady lines bordering recourse brought sense and sentience to my foray into the crowd, extracted condition and promoted my distinction from those I sought to blend among. Observe and relate, the wrest is up to you. Tied in nots: Confide stride vied defied implied deride in tried (and tributed) collide chide reside denied inside, but spied wide on the slide, as the plied ride shied astride (a flied filed field yield), hide and dried, while I sighed with sundered pride. So I returned and sat back to the thrill of passive rite: read on (if you dare the tide and….) Dance.
Time to liven up. Pipe the (overriding) cultured bag and stick it to the beat, the rhythm is yours to move your feet. Or, just list in and churn in appreciative confusion on the lean offerings. When iris eyes are smiling in sweet scented blossom and the scene clamors to squeeze hard between these lines to find another, almost distant viewer (you are a bit too distant), my mirror will wag the tale with my pen sieve, ink-strained tongue and drain the colored hew carved upon the slate you (close enough now) contrive to comprehend. Garden dreams in the wood. Chisel your own ideas into this floral array of energy and appreciate those of others. Step. Dance.
Mean wile, on with the showing. The energy of your eyes keeps my pen focused in the fog of an entirely removed cultural awareness, and the transition to current tides washes clean and clear on the open shades of each individual ocean of self-awareness. And, in spite of other activities, alternate video selections begin to fold repeatedly upon my own reflected energy in apparent random patterns of digital geometrics, provoking forth inspired consideration, quite in spite of my surprise and pleasure. Subalternative screens play production crafted theatricals in accompaniment to the particular commercial recording blasting the basic drive of physical focus. Dance.
What move can find groove in the patterns scribed unto this night? Potential differential lies in the face of honest considerations and holds substance right and steady, the continuous sensory over-load notwithstanding, just beyond touch and realization. Sudden clarification sways and swirls to just as unexpectedly diminish and fade, but the moment has eased transition to translation and carried my efforts beyond portrayed view… at least, I think so… I can’t see it to verify to edify, simple and lost where it belongs. Thank and gamble, would you link a nether touch? Teach me to learn. But the amusement finds another way to fold and cover, the means to an end transcends and finds alternative functions in the beat of heated inter-fraction, one other at a time. Think and gambol, purse your lights in the lost moments of euphoria, for that’s what makes you beautiful and keeps me captive in the realm of observant smile. At least, fore most and forever, it holds while you look where I inform all lies in formal eyes over my shouldered load, that they are carried past knowing into the time being as it falls, appearance as you may wear it within your thoughtful heart. Dance.
I watch those who watch those who find the mood blends to their substantives moves, fighting entropy with its own game, denying the dissipation of substance in the continual outpouring of activity, not holding back for the later that is the fountain of truth. Youth burns it wick close to the touch. I feel the night wrapping closer, my own confrontation with experience savors the light and soaks the heat generated mood. The set of perception, running hard to ease forward in the covet wag on train to the floor tracking machination driven thirst, carried in eclectic definition and consumption, yields to desire. Nuts to a tired later drive, chug a lug and join the fun. Dance.
In another light I’d probably be able to see what I’m writing, but otherwise, we are both in the dark of the night (which in no way affects what is read) sporting our minds astray, to find an eligible encore to passion held by someone else’s dream. Channels of focused energy maintain the offerings of light, noise and relaxed inhibition, just like a played ground of (more) earth moving tech-tronics, intending consequence to direction, not fulfillment, will connect and correspond. Good to go. Dance.
Warnings relay impending alteration of offering in divergent direction beyond the immediate location. The last call to moisten the drying night dulls the mood, dims the urgency, darkens the eyes of festivity and winds down the music springing eternal until it ends. The lights fill full their destiny, bringing substance and direction to prospective awareness. The hardened crowd parts and fragments into tomorrow, the needs of the moment met or carried on with the energies expended in seeking them, gone until the next stepping of ritual affects in gendered complicity and finds the way to hide in the open eyes of night, the welcome smiles of alcohol, the beating heart of rhythm and the sway that is carried to the floor. Duration. Slowed motion writes upon the walls of time and shares the secrets of your need to need. Take your light and shine it on another day of night lived escape from the chill of dark loneliness. Read me like a book. Dance.
Alons zie, time to be free. Dance.

…and that’s exactly how it was written (except for the parts I changed or added). Time to go: Dance.

Dance the light in the wave of the night

Dance the light in the wave of the night

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