Martial Choreograph

Hello, young sailor. You are betrayed and do not know the dance of death. Dandy warrior, swaying to Rick James on your stereo, you do not hear the bleat of triumphant war, its roar is not in your ears, filled with Stevie Wonder. “Show me how to do like you. Show me how to do it.” You will be surprised that trees grunt when torn from their root sockets to fandango into dust, and exploding bombs force a lively Lindy on grasses and frail bodies. Go galloping on, bopping, in the airport, young sailor. Your body, virgin still, has not swung the bloody buck-and-wing. Manhood is a newly delivered message. Your eyes, rampant as an open city, have not yet seen life steal from limbs outstretched and trembling like the arms of dancers and dying swans.