the baboon flutist

the hearts were draped
at the bass of every harp
string-
bloody octaves
under cupid’s noose
that someone tangled
in the tune.
the rose choke lynch:
cough of thorns
bore yesterday’s groove
for the needle to slice through
-the broken record serenade
played at the drop
of a razorblade

-all conducted
by the baboon flutist.
splintered the fear
tearing in the audience
eye rolls,
he holds the music
hostage
in serrated
thoughtless.

his trigger fingers
spit glass
with previously broken windows
-he licks the frag
of past sonic boom to catch
a taste of the winds cold soul-
a melody behind the glass
that never really
held it back!

conducting tragedy
to the backs of masses;
the stage laid in a house of mirrors
that screamed her
ashes
-echoed by walls
that stopped talking
because they hate us
all.

the percussion-
drum line
trace his heart in chalk line;
violin squeals peel
back his jagged lashes
to reveal the crescendo
into his head
stored with cob webs
and old love letters
he reads like sheet music

tortured by the table stapled
to the ceiling-
dies the bloom in a baboon flutist’s
musical

downfall.