SPIN HISTORY.

The centrifugal struggles of childhood are manyfold,
Not least the inability to stand still,
Whereby an urchin will search
For multiple ways to twirl like a top,
Even when told to stop,
Or be unable to walk along the crown of hill
Without longing to roll down it,
And be dazzled by the dizziness this brings,
And all the similar things of the turning world
Will conspire to drive the cogs and springs
And tensile strings of their internal apparatus
Until such a time as night arrives
And the loss of light powers down their engines.
And then one morning the urge will be gone,
As quickly as its tickling began,
And no longer will they be thrilled
By the giddiness whirligigging brings,
As other things will have captured
The attraction of their magnet like minds,
And as they forge a way into the future
Of their secluded yet ever present lives
They’ll forget the simple pleasures of light-headedness,
And concentrate more of the forthright plights
Of adolescence and its messes,
And the tender heights of teenage uprisings;
Marching to the parched tunes of society’s wishes
And never once missing their previous innocent turns,
Until they discover other circles to move in,
And the juices that lubricate them,
And then, with a swiftness shiftier than tricksters,
They’ll be lifting jars full of liquid to their mouths
And devouring them until haziness returns
And takes them back for a while
To the idle youth of happier times,
Before dope and coke and pills spill their rhetoric
Down the throats of adults who suddenly remember
How nauseous it feels to be reeling.