When we dance the sky opens up virginal to our mountain of climbing flames and we beat drum skins, we sing primordial chants, reckless, born again and finally alive beneath our celestial cypher. Our bodies painted up reverently with the blood of today’s hunt and the women gyrate hips and shoulders, backs twisted beautifully, arms and legs pierced, braceleted, serpentine, both their bodies and ours primed for bestial contact, the fragrant spell of carnal delight. I am an animal. Mother moon culled us from the Earth or the spirit of the very Earth upon which we dance and now here we are, immersed in her elegant mystery and decay. Can we not live forever, O mother, at least for this one night?
TJ McAvoy Fiction, literature, prose, writing 1 Minute
Published by TJ McAvoy
Primary influences, in no particular order: Chandler, Voltaire, Saramago, Borges, John Coltrane, Nietzsche, Ricardo Piglia, Emerson, George V. Higgins, Manuel Puig, D.F. Wallace, Cortázar, Denis Johnson, Michelangelo, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Melville, Keith Jarrett, J-Dilla, Roberto Bolaño, and Don DeLillo. View all posts by TJ McAvoy