The bongo skin.

Who is he?
He's a painter, a sculptor or an animator.
He's in his final year.
A woollen hunters hat he wears with peacock feathers, up and down the college corridors.
Bongos are his instrument, he's in a jamming band.
Last night I hearkened to his rhythmic fingers striking mayhem.
The bongo skin flinched.
I saw his eyes, I read his mind.
I saw him linger, undress the limber.
He gave the show away.
See me see you see him!
I've heard this one before.
Clap and stamp,
flicker.
Echo, echo, of frustration.
Musical might,
fight or flight.
Staggered at the back by the condensation.
1993
© MARCO MOONE 2008

No comments: