Sound Track

Chinking beat, the heartbeat voice of my mother surrounds me inside the womb, yes his voice my mother, squeel long and smooth – carry me double sounds of forwards and backwards strings together, though I am fifty seven and twelve years late, left his breath forty years behind. The decade was fully formed, more beautiful expanding shining time than this. My shopping trolley balances heavily, curving every word and finishing it perfectly chinking heartbeat drum. Stasis the end of my labour sitting forward facing on the sideways seat, hood up inside the moving loveless un-mother-bus. I am saturated in his voice and the sound moving as I am carried past poor life in the rain, bones and drum rolls, death watches as voices end with a fragile child-like “aaahhh!”
Claps the stick on the rim, I can’t imagine this immortal position, the voice that is the shape of the cells in my blood surrounded by symbol chuckling-strings.
Light weight clink bites, electric metal grabs a handful of my sensors and drags them bending metal through my conscious listening trees, crunching meowing slap, high and growl feline prowling electric strings, in space, towers on left and right populating the land where string so brass becomes the centre of a trumpet horn’s body and travels his voice that flows my blood.

Sound Track

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