by Sean J Mahoney
As if the violin were scalding water to my criminal T-cells, reducing them down,
smooshing them together like residual sex crimes destined for a young writer’s review
notes; the show of prog- fucked obsession with red meat and ‘pop’ hair.
As if fragments of each note from each bruising sonic strode erect with impunity;
a phalanx inserting spears into the moist folds of my amygdala la-la landscape such
that the slow burn and pounding belonged between time signatures.
As if the warren of scar tissue onto the mesmerizing loops of fractured major chords
warranted the introduction of dour compassed babes; the stage largely hard enough for
carousing testicular affairs with skins and chilling strings.
If my injections in Dm are resuscitated as reborn scared hemorrhoids while loaded with
a dirge for the innocents seated safely, and cloaked from the rumbling deluge produced
within the chasm of a club this glorious night, then I consider my dreamy disease
exceptionally tailored to white matter. And the cherry-chocolate rain I sprinkle equally
adept at re-branding the virginal of ear within the modesty of squeals.