yes I am that old trombonist who sees death dangling in every bird
every day I discover a surplus of skinned robins darting around under the rubble of my daydreaming
the more I hear the clunk of their lost wings the more my notes become glowworms illuminating the intact ribs of children in whispering tremolo leaving the guitar I have to then wake up to fancy a silvery sauna that feels like a deafening music by pure chance
many a times I try to play serenely half-notes ending with dotted rests revealing their immortal bones under the rubble perhaps it gives you the impression of an ivory creek of misplaced optimism or just of some theoretical gardenias swaying inside a cylindrical museum of war
and I play euphonium thinking the bromide nuance of my embouchure might help you with the surmise that the sinew of those fallen thrushes is as bright as mercurial descents of a starry night traveling past a mortuary
you are my half-brother half-fruitcake half-misdeal half-nirvana tell me where have you hidden those deaf-aid reverse tracks of death between redness & cinders between the mortuary of Monte Carlo & the museum of war of Luxembourg ain’t no dead
neither in Syria where with a puckered smile I play highlife in tuba the more I play the more a sheen on that rubble of my daydreaming turns kidney color or if you like lilac o bloody tulip go fuck yourself in your fast-draining soil