THE CLATTER OF BONES


The dance of demons, the clatter of bones, the wide-hipped slither of the dead and of the dying. Crossroads abound, but no one is fixing/distancing. There's ways to leave and there's way to arrive. But dancing with demons, and the clatter of bones, the sexless undulations of the dead and of the dying, it's the night for that. We could be in Mexico, but we're not, we're in a northern town (without the soul). We've intermittent street lighting, flickering multi-moons - it's confusing. It's the end time, it's the neither/neither time - you choose. Demons are dancing, bones are clattering, the dead and the dying are slip, slip sliding away.

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