The Dance Which Could Be Perfect, We Don't Know

I danced the 'poke the sky' above the back of my head under a billion lights. One hundred and twenty three lights floated overhead. True they were lighted by Prometheus but then they had been harnessed by the bite-sized torch. Countless more flew and a few of each were snuffed out by night like dead lights hissing beneath a cellar-door.

I cup a glass which holds a gulp of cava which had persevered in a cave in Spain for many years. I read the residues clinging to the sloped sides and store them in my memory. I shall retrieve these in twenty years for the Elephant Dance. The bubbles pop at the surface top releasing old air. Into the whittle wind, it flows Southeast.

I'm atop a peat bog. Right under my feet preserved neatly, rests one hundred and twenty generations of insecurity. The ancient pottery here was used for feeding men with ugly mustaches. And to the Northeast are some bone knuckles of magpie bone buried down deep. They were unfortunately thrown down during an Anguish Dance.

I danced the 'poke the sky' above the back of my head under another billion lights. The gulp of cava stained my shirt, sewn in China by men with ugly mustaches. The cotton seeds were crushed with ancient magpie bones. Countless more bulbs floated above. And a few of these were snuffed out of sight. The dead light hisses beneath a cellar-door.