Come again: aural implosion
closing activity. All my affections,
it is—annoyances and pains
of day-to-day, a door-breaker,
threshold crossing, tinsel fluttering
through the chamber. So sick
of glow, the swooping rings
of winged deliverances, a prattle
of ritual, confinement of heritages.
Plush skies swallow our tones.
A footstep, a tap of the fingers,
beak against moss, erupt
in my church. Gavel on the altar.
Watching the stars through the external
canal, in the shell-like. The sea
is my cochlea. Elsewhere, snare
drum and anvil, tympany.
Stelarc is tinnitus
and he is coming to dine with us.
Slow buzz. A hissy fit. Swarm
of never-say-die visitants.