Improv off of Sharon Olds' The Language of the brag, no one thing in particular just a bragging of sorts.
Every beat of my chest was a small whisper to myself. A bludgeon of rhythmatic dominoes. The whisper leads to a dum dum dum, thum thum then strums of pangs like a symbiosis of skin and beat. My orifices got notes plotting with the hair. People tell me its hard to live without music, I tell them its the skin I'm in. An infectious tempo steadily collapsing every artery till parts of me start shutting down from vibrations. A sign stating, he's a patient of the patience when waiting for the drum line to hit. People don't know the difference between scat and spit. Why'd it get so quiet. Across a sea of blank faces, no beatboxing, just tick tocks. Hearts panging the monotony.
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