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ZigZag Wanderer kept on the move and in the groove. He was non-linear and strayed the course. When life felt like a tether, when gravity was a complete downer, he cut the ties that held him down. He gathered the stars and crushed them to dust, they fizzed on his tongue and made his head rush. He rolled like thunder, in a shroud of static, looking for someone to stir up a storm with.
ZigZag Wanderer veered here and there, sometimes up, sometimes down, but always maybe happenin'. Then one night at Chico's he felt a different kind of pull. He was being drawn like a bad cartoon. Riding high on the back an the oriental dragon, ZigZag double-taked, unzipped his eyelids and stood still in silent awe. She danced like a flame in the centre of a grand circle of bodies. The others, in their various psychedelic threads were like still-life, pieces of fruit, stunned into inertia by the moving body of life and light. ZigZag felt it in the steamy den amid the dazzled dreamers, sizzled sceners and every single saturated sponge in search of zen. Yeah, she was a stone groove.
ZigZag weaved his way through all sorts of colourful cats, and came at her from an angle. Exotic ladies swayed and sasheyed around, and he was headed off at the pass. ZigZag found one on each arm. There was a pipe and the walls bubbled and melted and ran like dark, red paint. Zwischenzug was a good idea - ZigZag had to play it cool and play for time. He threw one eye in her direction, bounced on the floor nearby, squelched and squinted, kept her in ZigZag's sights.
ZigZag was drawn, but so were the curtains of his vision. Music melded with beating hearts in one, slowed-down rhythm. Every thing slowed down and then . . .
Now Zugzwang got ZigZag bad - stuck fast, struck dumb, unable to move. He could see her drift away like smoke. So long ZigZag, his eyelids zipped themselves shut, and his body turned to fluid and quietly pooled on the floor.
*
Now ZigZag rides a zebra in the hot air of morning. A concrete pillow is not such a stone groove, horny cars harp on and ZigZag zigzags off the street. Like a flash flood, memory washes down. Wet with longing he wonders where she went. Was she a smoke signal, a waft from a wigwam or a wisp caught in an updraught? Was she a mish-mash of imagination, or a mirage at the desert of hallucination?
ZigZag wonders, ponders, wanders.
ZigZag Wanderer veered here and there, sometimes up, sometimes down, but always maybe happenin'. Then one night at Chico's he felt a different kind of pull. He was being drawn like a bad cartoon. Riding high on the back an the oriental dragon, ZigZag double-taked, unzipped his eyelids and stood still in silent awe. She danced like a flame in the centre of a grand circle of bodies. The others, in their various psychedelic threads were like still-life, pieces of fruit, stunned into inertia by the moving body of life and light. ZigZag felt it in the steamy den amid the dazzled dreamers, sizzled sceners and every single saturated sponge in search of zen. Yeah, she was a stone groove.
ZigZag weaved his way through all sorts of colourful cats, and came at her from an angle. Exotic ladies swayed and sasheyed around, and he was headed off at the pass. ZigZag found one on each arm. There was a pipe and the walls bubbled and melted and ran like dark, red paint. Zwischenzug was a good idea - ZigZag had to play it cool and play for time. He threw one eye in her direction, bounced on the floor nearby, squelched and squinted, kept her in ZigZag's sights.
ZigZag was drawn, but so were the curtains of his vision. Music melded with beating hearts in one, slowed-down rhythm. Every thing slowed down and then . . .
Now Zugzwang got ZigZag bad - stuck fast, struck dumb, unable to move. He could see her drift away like smoke. So long ZigZag, his eyelids zipped themselves shut, and his body turned to fluid and quietly pooled on the floor.
*
Now ZigZag rides a zebra in the hot air of morning. A concrete pillow is not such a stone groove, horny cars harp on and ZigZag zigzags off the street. Like a flash flood, memory washes down. Wet with longing he wonders where she went. Was she a smoke signal, a waft from a wigwam or a wisp caught in an updraught? Was she a mish-mash of imagination, or a mirage at the desert of hallucination?
ZigZag wonders, ponders, wanders.
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