Apercu of This Sporting Life genus

Fingernails are pretty sinking deep into the neck

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, January 9, 2008 - 21:57:57 - print it raw

Round and round the neck they go.

Sinking deep the fingers sow.

Over and up and through the skin.

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On the ground she comes back down

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 12, 2007 - 23:43:02 - print it raw

Leaving intentions behind, she grasps at the short straws. Fist full of grass and hers is handed right back. Never mind there being no long straws. That's all academic with a twist of lemon sprinkled with a salty edge. Lines cut sweet tension in the hairline slits that appear open on the cracking corners of mouths and upper arms. Rub it in for good measure, it's all about the application really.

Life fills itself with hairy armpits and furry throats on the mornings before the nights after. Taking one strand of chance is a choice of the blind. Flying down south for the winter she picks up a towel to wrap around her left leg. Falls better that way. Easier to tumble into the roll. Saves bones breaking really. Travel insurance doesn't exist here. And towels are what remain from the pelt of others in the camp.

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Running a breeze that's long winded

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, December 5, 2007 - 22:42:32 - print it raw

Sweat plies a lucid transcript of evaporation on the neck. Grime carving a niche underneath the fingernails as the pressure of life gets the better of two halves. One for the west, one for the south. Both in dire need of winning the fight over the last can of water. Where that can lies, however, remains to be seen.

Much like the rock. Tight in the palm; fast on the down swing. Burden of slight fright on the first might, each successive connect for the thirst. For the thirst on each second third. Smooth to a point for the wild and hairy gushing of raw emotion. Water and food made fodder if wooed.

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Tripping at the gates, wasting all away

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

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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Life goes fast, make the good things last

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, July 18, 2007 - 12:44:46 - print it raw

Take a night and watch it take a few more in return. Dusk to dawn and that's the business of the race, of the game with no name and no players bearing faces distinguishable from the anguish and the longing wish. Run with it and watch from the far side of the smoking bush. Where they all find the small red berries that leaves the far end ruminating with smoke of its own.

Counts of heads are useless in the fluctuation of nature and an abhorrent existence marked by futility. Watch out for one another and watch as one and another fall by the womping wasp of dust as the sudden fall takes them to ground. Scratch dust them there and only there as the stains trail lines flowing freely into the pools of hardening reds.

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Beaten by a policeman on a duty crawl

Ethan Switch - Wednesday, May 9, 2007 - 23:21:26 - print it raw

Law and order and to them, it's nothing but the criminals intent on carving up a scene of their own. Rough shod over the banks of the dry river lines, feet taking up the clay with foot prints to make tracks back and forth. Drop a case of doubt and there is never more a chance on turning back.

Oh for they will scream as they find their hands clapping with no arms attached. Loud and ecstatic with the erratic patterns folding of the desperate sweat. Hans, it seems, will take offence to this. Were that the man exists on this plame, on this field. Alas, but a mere figment of the speculation and imagination.

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