Akvarell27

I have not reached the satisfactory sound.

The keys are too heavy for my fingers 

and when I close my eyes

I hear the tricky chorus

of black and white constituents,

as the two camps have not yet learned to unite as a trickling spectrum. 

The music is quite religious

in the way that it is organisational. 

It strives to be objectively traceable. 

The index finger its favourite authority,

 the process of counting 

is the backbone of integrity;

the perfect white wall clock

the illegitimate parent of my trembling psyche. 

The ambience is conjured formulaically 

and my ambivalence 

toward the ordeal 

is instigated by the alternative dynamic. 

I think I love the gristly fragrance of raw meat. 

My lungs have had too much

of your grandmother’s severe perfume,

I taste nothing but metal and the denouncement of freedom.

By displacing the noise you have left me

with a new division of hymns,

a small army of forgivable screeches. 

a concussion

Yield. An infatuation with ultramarine,

the blackly profound youth with a slant towards distortion. 

Percussion 

the exoskeleton 

of a glamorised hue of vulnerability. 

I prayed for a way with words

and instead 

won the paper stack. 

MY PURPOSE A BLADE IN TRANSIT

my music

accentuated

by the best of my bruises.