The Horn

A burnt brass twisted tube of sound
shivered in the forges of the night,
spun as gold into ear moulds, a slick
sweat oil on furrowed brow, pearl
eyes scrawled out of passion, screwed
religiously shut. A membrane migraine:
fire on the front line, blues in the back.
A caw, a buzz, a spark — furious
molten spasms poured into a rattling
hum of keys, holes and screws; ligaments
struck by convoluted light, bell bent
in incandescent descant rhapsody.
Ancient, broken, battered alive but still
screaming that old love down midnight streets,
tanked up, smoked dry, the unmerciful horn
that kills us all and brings us back — reborn
as disciples of the liquid lightning touch,
of reed on silver plating, of heart attack
solos and epiphany songs, of redemption
in wordless words of intertwining breath,
of living death and inflamed majesty
that leaves you gasping, hunger in your soul.