Ancient apercus from August 2007

Step aside to where the sun beams and moon burns

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, August 29, 2007 - 23:25:21

Scratching the surface of sharp rocks for comfort and that raw feeling that follows the application of salt on open wounds.

Salt in this case from the other side of the face, the sweat and the tears that burn in the afternoon sun. Where the realisation comes thick and fast, unlike the hairs on the back of the neck. Constantly in use, abuse, misuse. Looking for a chance to become another slice of refuse.

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Humming sound with a sense of coldness

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, August 22, 2007 - 21:07:52

Where the cold things sit, the people at the ends of the loud shouting sticks gather and throw the metal tins at each other's heads. Watching from the edges of the compound and the edges of their thrones, they drink, they eat and they loom over the prospects. Afternoon for the morning and the cold hum of attacks line up frozen spices and hot sugary sweets.

Meals at the ready with trays and divisions and settings neatly away from the back of the room. Resting long in the warm, sweat trickles onto the food, served on plastic warped from time in the oven. Condiments and sweets beat nothing clear when the single drop adds the spark that sings the lyrics of inner flavour.

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Magicians work with calculations and errors

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, August 15, 2007 - 23:52:41

Placing cold hands under the armpits, jitters quiver to end. Squeezing tightly and gently at the same time, breath is deep, breath carries quick to a pace. Watching the light over the break tip over into the eyes and shield all manner of shadows running along the horizon is the kind of past time for the dawn to enter into. Thar be silhouettes with no arms. No arms leaving them with no armpits by default.

For all the hands and all the sleeves in the world, nothing comes close to the detemination that comes underfoot. A mighty swing and all the cards flutter without any pants. No pants and no arms. nothing but the context. Nothing but the essence.

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Tripping at the gates, wasting all away

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, August 8, 2007 - 18:51:46

Clumps of sand in the mouth taste bad when the hand scoops up from the dirt underfoot. Veritable switch and change leaves a poor and sour feeling on the tongue. As dry and as arid as the back of the hands. All too swollen from swatting flies from the backsides of others.

People get ready, there's a refrain a coming and they ask for no tickets. Too much paper work.

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Hypnotist waving around the eclipse behind the cloud

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, August 1, 2007 - 19:29:39

Fine grains of sand find themselves deep under the eyelids, warding against evils of sight and the subsequent tricks on the mind.

Everybody is the enemy!

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