stop and listen:
the world will shimmer
and glisten in your ears;
that ever present hum
to which we’ve grown numb,
veiled in a dark velvet shroud,
is actually quite loud.

open you head:
remove your headphones;
chime in to wind chimes
twinklig in the dark,
wink back with a stark silence,
hold your violence and your breath.
this is what death feels like.

now widen your mind:
first thirst for the creaks
of old floorboards above,
then love the distant din of laughter,
find the sonic subtlety of streetwise steps,
feel the bustle of rustling oak leaves;
soak in symphony.

the padding paws of passing possums
are phonetically poetic.
don’t let it slip,
concentrate on the consumate beauty
of rudely spoken words through chipped teeth;
air is indifferent.

now mix senses:
see the violet petals of a tuning fork.
taste the gristle from a bearded baritone.
smell the bitterness of hack saw’s winny.
feel the sheepskin of the whistling wind.
hear the here.

speak into your skull:
feel the roundness of the word round.
close and open your eyes.
note the tear-shaped sound
your lids make when bound
oh so briefly with moisture.
hoist this knowledge up.

daydream of dense auditory decadence:
pittering downpours on tin roofs,
rapping cast iron door knockers,
soot-covered hands rifling through glass bottles,
eratic static on a television.
really: hearing is as good as vision.


3 thoughts on “phono

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