Jungle Song

Muscles are pulled, ripped, torn from the bone and separated from each other. The only noise I can hear is the wall of blood rushing in my ears. My pulse beats in the tip of my nose with the violence of a hammer. I feel as though I could explode with every exhale, every inhale brings me back together with an implosion from my chest inwards to the back of my spine. Electric fingers play me like an exotic instrument, pent and bursting out like a pump organ. My song is a jungle noise, filled with dark nights and red moons that hang low on the horizon. We lose ourselves in the eyes of the other, brought back by the stirring of vegetation; the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves. Our bodies are lean from running over the jungle floor. The night makes us move, we are lunar powered. The vines hang and catch us in their web making us each a marionette, our arboreal strings being pulled; we dance under the fat moon, gross exaggerated movements with each tug. The natives are restless and dance to ward us off. We are the evil spirits that haunt their forests. The reason their fires burn through the night.