Them coyotes / Summer’s complaint / DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND / We coyotes

them coyotes

clinging to the creation
that slinks along our trade routes.
devoting their spirited sonics
to extensive night-time
ramblings. quiet. harmless. now,
desperate for success
they slap neutered coyote songs
onto crumbling walls.

Summer’s complaint

Summer came by, blame
the headlines, blame
the videos
scared up noises in
her box, caught fresh tunes
off the coast of her hips, her
teeth humming, Summer:
blues, reds, yellows, scenes
from a night-time lifetime
“Sure gets better than this,”
said Summer in a
slow drawl wrapped in codeine, and
it made my head ache
to see her sitting
too pretty to whine, like her
LA Daddy and her
NYC Mum
it happens every New Year’s
each holiday
a bit bluer
than the last
come down
to see her see me
groping through all the volume
of Summer’s complaint

DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND

The lines on her face read: DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND. The SOUND of boys’ skirts ruffling in the aggression of nonstop strobelights. The SOUND of smoky breath tasting and embracing all that smooth young girlflesh. Fresh SOUND. DESTROY the commonlaw rhythms. Fold up the pattern and fall out of the worship of all those gods we’ve constructed in the epileptic blue halflight of our union. Then DESTROY THEM WITH SOUND.

She was black-and-white, nameless and smiling. Smiling in a way that suggested she was well-fed and in touch with herself. Perhaps a little too frequently for her lover’s tastes. I found her beside a tobacconist’s, five minutes or so up the street from my current address.

The SOUND of deception. The SOUND of illusion. The SOUND of social penetration, of social permutation. DESTROY the clearest targets. It was such an obvious problem. Why hadn’t I seen it coming? I tore her off the space she was in and burned her up before the authorities realised she was gone. The silence was absolutely fantastic.

we coyotes

chewing on the wilderness
that blazes through our veins.
attention spanned/sprawled
across expansive superhighway
rage. still. calmer. now,
bored with excess,
we shove rabid coyote songs
into stiffening arms.