The Cuffs of Giants

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

The cave yawned and bellowed as I tickled tongues at its inner most depth.
No lust for hibernation, just an eagerness to avoid climates by jumping backseat, heaters full blown. An intimidation with no intention to allow for anything else, but affliction against the kindly, like pitching a tent on the bubbles of boiling water.

Songs crowd an ecosystem of music raging with so many styles you cannot decide whether to dance or dislike. A migration from dance floor to bar, to toilets to car parks, or the realism taken off the cuff – the land of giants awaits.

Great lakes are indoor pools lined with native descendants bathing at the borders of radical cusps. Heated and cleansed by an understanding, as vast pockets of world music surrenders them to weeklong parties. No one is in transparent need to find themselves, as they were not lost in the first place.

A photograph taken on my 16th birthday, ten years later that artless child changed colour via the backdoor; the fire escape to the next world. An offering of wild egos, a climate that does everything but show you the cards of good fortune.

Delayed trains and empty taxi stands, drivers frozen, time to objectively suss opinions. Words spoken yesterday via the medium of argument, as you choke on a powdered froth. The wilderness is the cave, the cave is the train jammed up the line, the line is the tracks that took us from the maternal womb, but it never takes us out of the place we are so desperate to escape.

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