Member-only story
Opera. Out The Bush.
By nature’s accord, a silent bird audience.
And she:
She screams.
Louder then thunder.
Even the murder of crows shies out.
In between vulgar and romantic she rapes the low misty clouds.
Unsettled sounds, she’s incapable of moderate volume. She rises above the law of human capacity to comprehend art = rusty and vital.
The depths of her vocals climbs on the spikey vines of the forest.
She reaches an exceptional flower at the treetops.
Uknown spoken verbs of ancient Latin, Greek and the Rosetta Stone. Never meant to be heard by the passing pedestrian with a shouldered boom box of noisy fiction.
Clouds are blown above, she’s stronger. She is a soul container.
Through the bush, her scratchy words strike like black cats over sheer luck.
It doesn’t make sense, but free of permission she proceeds to new excruciating levels for the lazy ear.
My earplugs dropped down, I invite such foreign melody into my mindset.
Non-dance-able-rhythm, I remain still, set, listening,
Who is she?
Who am I?
Millions of beach bums chugging anesthetic liquids.
I sip another half a liter of black coffee.
My bum wants to beach, but I ditch another minute off the tangled schedule.
I am about to mask, I am to about fest, it’s Halloween, It’s who I’ve been that doesn’t want to be seen.
I sit and sip another brackish-bitter shot of caffeine, I want to wake up.
But her screams keep me dormant.
Her penatrating wind reaches my shack, I…
