Improv 2, Week 14

My second improv for this week riffs the piece, "Going Around The Country With Full Orchestra"

There was a shift in desire and she sat in bed with the sound of flowers.
Was this an exponent of language this dramatization of her heart. He hit
her weakness like a keyboard. Always a skipped note in this cold song.
The level of fascination rose up and the original plot stretched toward a
Nomi song. She stood in red ski socks and sparkling silver gloves when
there were no more questions about the obviousness of their dreamscape.
There. A glorious drunkenness in static tableaux. No tremor, no perspire:
Heaven is here in Minneapolis. On the other end Henry was still a cat. No
reason for suspicion. It is strange he said this melting story. She said You
have the calm symmetry of an occasional reason below. He fell on her like
a moral emergency and the path turned. Convlusive. Like beauty. Like
his voice. There was a retrospective act of manufactured oddity. There
was his dream. There was her hand. There.



There is obviously a sense of "heavenly lust" in Byrd's piece. She uses positive terms like, "sparkling, glourious, heaven, calm, fascination, etc" to envoke a sense of pleasure. I attempted to turn the language around to ground my improv in a stronger sense of harsh reality of words like, "deamening, slamm, sledge hammer, chipped, chilled, plummted, broken, etc." I believe in the end, where Byrd's piece hinges more on lusty heaven, my piece ended up hinging more on abusive reality.


There was a rise in disgust and she stirred in the water with the sound of the grass. Was this an extension of prologue demeaning the evolution of her tongue. He slammed her head like a sledge hammer. Never a chipped tooth in this chilled prong.The steps of desire plummeted and the age-old rhyme curved near a Japanese proverb. She stared in white silk slippers and red leather gloves when the city begged prudence about the sanctity of their breath.Beyond. A magnificent keyhole in static taboo. No shimmy, no shake: The Library is over in the Bronx. Just past 54th street, Josephine still knit. No reason for song. The arousing pain he said pours from her fingertips. She said You reek of the rationale that deters thinking just there. He slicked her like coke bottle and the illusion was broken. Silence. Like concrete. Liketheir grandparents. There was a respected intent of baby befuddlement. Here was her whisper. There was his voice. Beyond.