House of Words terrified drim face wooden menu frame

electro acoustic head

when you love music too much
you will hear it all

the weaping of the first brute
to put lips onto a trophy skull
and make it sing with his breath

the electric jangle of the devil's fiddle

you'll understand vibration
and gratefully become
the surface of all music

your own scalp tightens
your teeth grind
you're up all night
curled around a keyhole in your heart

here come buddy's sticks of life
your finger tips tap-tapping on
your temples
your knees bouncing up and down
thrash-thrashing like buddy

here comes beethoven's left hand
inscribing a mandala of
stringed warriors
onto your bony plate
your own hand in the air
like joan of arc's

you can't cry fast enough
to keep up
with all the tears of joy

you will always be alone

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