So what if you aren’t a fan of the dirge?
As an art-form it is rivaled only
by the rebel yell. Baby, like quails stuck
in a chimney we’ll choke. Your disco heels
can flay roads on my back in the startled
evening venue. And sunshine? they ask. Fuck
that. Sometimes you just need to sing the blues
like your stomach means estuary, means
boneyard. Cut me open and pluck these chords.
If I lie on my back I can hear my
blood fester. Whittle Me Something might be
a corny band name but I mean it, girl.
I still remember that song you wrote where
you let me brush my beard against your stings.