They let me think I'll find a way to fix 'em, 
knit melodic bits into a fabric of pure music. 
But truth, what's here is a rough old scratchy hair shirt. 
A half-born song with pneumatic wind-sections of perfect lyrics 
about nothing. Sexy nature romps with herds of naiads and satyrs
that no reader cares about. The lists, the rants, the bowlegged 
ars poetica. (Is arses the plural of ars?)

You can’t help your affection for brass, 
for strings and guttering woodwinds – all 
floated on a shore breeze, with a fleeting stink of seaweed. 
(Graveyard by the ocean? That alone 
should draw an eager reader.) 

As nachtmusik, there's the Boneyard Sonata: 
itchy scrape of jointed scales, wheezing, 
obbligato of muted sniggers. A faceless something  
tweaks a string, mutters That’s all right, in a voice 
like rats’ claws dragged through icing. 

All those dense and floral exigencies, emitted 
from creatures wrenched out of the deep,  
hell-bent for terra firma. They drool, you know; 
they drop matter that needs tidying, lest it fester.
Funny, you can never tell when they’ll turn you on 
or turn on you. 

Look! There's a little elegy, sulking at its provenance 
and longing for success. No clue about its subject, 
or where it came from, where it's going. 
From the water’s edge, a rip-tide bellow,  
one surf-sleek fin thrust at the moon, 
and a strangulated squeal: Love me! Help me! Save me! 
Any fool can see it's a trap. (Why does it move me?) 

They're my orphans, and they munch my earnestness 
like Hallowe'en candy. Indifferent doesn’t start 
to cover it. Where does a man turn? I know 
I’m the one who let them through. I never had  
the stomach for drowning my kittens, though 
down deep I know what I have to do. 
Let them go, it isn’t worth it, the voice counsels. 
Shake my head. They’re better off dead.   
   	
When I reread, nightmares drag my safe terrain 
like the massive knuckles of Jack’s giant. 

Fee     fie     foe     fuck.  
My stillborn darlings, stone out of luck.