All of my idols worn smooth by the wind
Lack mouths to advise me.
Salt has danced tattoos on my lenses,
On my cheekbones, but it sends
No intelligible codes today.
I am dried out.
I have sat in the mud and shrunk down
Into a crab. I disappeared into my mother
Fingers first, leaving no castings behind me.
Those tunnels hold no secrets now.
Eldritch pipes erode the grey shoreline
At my ear’s entrance. All the whorl’s a stage,
But no libretto will embroider these howls.
The beach has lost the voice
That spoke to me once in my own tones.
A hard passionate pulse
Grows fur at the edges of my eyes.
My fingers are at low tide.
The breath needed for new songs
Mutes my keening limbs,
Pulling inspiration through a cracked straw.
Broken friends, let us croak by the estuary
Of primeval Lethe, gulping down the mud,
Drinking to the last breath.
Together let us paint squeezebox songs
And sing them to old, uncaring gods.