World Music
RC deWinter
The music began as a Kandinsky washed in bronze and blue,
then disassembled under hands striking leather, striking metal, striking wood.
The wind, straight off the savanna, lifted me and sent me flying,
a syncopated puppet in thrall to rhythms stripped of civilization –
raw and smoky and savage with sex – then dropped me where
bronze exploded into scarlet so thick I could scarcely breathe;
blue wrapped itself around me in an embrace older than time.
Somewhere far away a wood flute piped, a lost voice over a hill,
and I burned with a new hunger, wishing you were there to devour.
RC deWinter
The music began as a Kandinsky washed in bronze and blue,
then disassembled under hands striking leather, striking metal, striking wood.
The wind, straight off the savanna, lifted me and sent me flying,
a syncopated puppet in thrall to rhythms stripped of civilization –
raw and smoky and savage with sex – then dropped me where
bronze exploded into scarlet so thick I could scarcely breathe;
blue wrapped itself around me in an embrace older than time.
Somewhere far away a wood flute piped, a lost voice over a hill,
and I burned with a new hunger, wishing you were there to devour.
