Do you keep files on hits you score in this no-life's bar, its
flies-on-shit ambiance done up in steakhouse red and black? Your
demeanor's an average embarrassment but humiliation, that's what my
soundhole's for. Taking it out of me, out on you, those sloehounds with
gin and katgut paws swap licks like slick wasps. A mouth to emit the
groans in time by item, an angry mite or a moth that leaves a sound like
snow on air. Why is it insects evoke for me intersecting sound and ears?
Because they're annoying? Because the internal sections are hammers,
anvils, tympani? (Why not fish? A riot of scrod shift on the rods of
corti.) No wonder the timid live in fear of paying for vile fare
afterwards. A pin might bust loose and give away its pent-up plot: Why did
I waste as wet a kiss on so sick a stew? What do you care if I erase your
song? Why can't you reach what I can see and hear? How can we tell who
we'll let go wrong?