Orchestra of Pylons

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I miss the pace, if I’m honest. If I’m honest,
I miss making margaritas braless behind the bar, with my lost friends egging me on.
I miss lacking class.
I miss cracking glass, slapping tarts, watching boys brawl, crashing through walls. I miss creating new scars.
I miss the race, I want excess, I miss the tumble, I like disgrace. I find romance in it.
I crave attention, I like aggression. Can I entice you to fight me?
I’m born the year of the tiger, I like to be cornered. Come a touch closer,
I’ll be the pain you’ve been pining …

I miss the pace, if I’m honest. If I’m honest,
I miss your name in my mouth, like a sweet I roll around.
I miss crying wolf. I hate standing tall. I like being chased, but what I love’s
getting caught. I like bratty, I like bitchy, I like catty, I like spoilt.
I like smashing tennis balls in to the other court.
I miss dancing. I miss shouting. I miss big. I miss grand. I miss the West of
America, I miss all my worst plans.
I miss carelessness, recklessness, the mottling of flesh. I miss the clamp of fear
that held me together, kept in my mess.

I miss the game, if I’m honest. If I’m honest,
I miss being run through the mill. I even miss dead bluebottles on the windowsill.
Still, I’m nimble from my childhood years; and still,
there’s the thick, soft grass I’d jealously watch the horses eat,
there’s still rivers and streams, the nettles still sting.
But now there’s never a sound but the wind, that howl. That pain between the wires,
an orchestra of pylons, just to remind me
I miss the streets. I miss the hard concrete that once fractured my teeth.
I repeat: if I’m honest, I miss the pace.
So my advice is chase only the heat, and revel in it.

 

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