dulcet
dawn creeps
across the inside of
my eyelids
mascara she
smudged on the
pillow
explosion of distant
dream, somehow the sound
of her pushing over a vase
in the hall is incorporated
into my dream as the dulcet
fire-fringed maelstrom of
hate love rock and roll
over Bach, mock him
once and regret him, mock
his symphony and you
won’t live to.
This is the culture that drags
chains between my ears and
shoulderblades, and eats quorn,
at all hours of the night, to cauterize
the slipshod with essential fire
of madness.