MURMERS. A poem by Samuel Geroldi 

David Bowie by Corrine Schwab, 1977.


You cannot fathom 

the splitting of atoms 

the utter cataclysm 

of these natural eruptions 

hypnotic and unapologetic 

with a dripping thumb you become undone at the apex of depression 

and logic in regression 

that leaves you dumb, 

found and numb 

through the turnstiles 

again you run 

toward life and death 

all wrapped up in one 

among voluntary fun 

and involuntary vibrations 

we move together like stitched starlings magnetic and high in murmuration.  

                                                              WASITGOODFORYOU ASKS WASITGOODFORYOU :

SAMUEL: ''It was like wanting to butter your toast, but the butter was frozen cold and I had to wait there with the knife, lamenting, asking for it to hurry up and ooze''.

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