The Insect Flamenco
2004-04-09 @ 3:57 a.m.
A soulless soul of rubber-made, factory-birthed shoes, spawned of child labor's manufacturing paradiso, make none of those who once were with each fall of a leg; a walking massacre of Goddess Nike's doing.
Too used to a loss, they run and run and play their songs; castanets clapping as loud as they could manage. Their feet stomping down hard, as they danced in escape; either dead or alive; they lived for their dance.
Their singing grows louder as the murder takes place, as the checker board is jumped and cleared, and the foot wear crowned.
"King me!" it cries, and the dancers cry, too, being dragged along a gum-stuck sole.
They writhe and they reach, make their ways onto laces, undone as they are, onto a grass forest below.
The guitar plays her smooth flamenco as they make their escape, but the rains begin to fall, and they're all left to drown.
Only one is left. Black beats red; a bailaor in the making.
everything © Claudia (2003-2008)