As the Overplayed Turntable Groans

AS THE OVERPLAYED TURNTABLE GROANS the world holds its breath as if sweet stenches from the trenches were some fetish to disdain or dissuade. The skeletal threat of fire and brimstone, chainsawed to teacups. Morning hailstorms ground the waters of Hormuz. Brackish taste remembers what the smell strains to unlearn. Every step is a swindle. Every word a luxury. Every tap dance kneads a hollow sound in the bones from the brain that owns a hundred ritual regrets to the trails of ourselves in the shadow overlooking the cliff we turn to for a plunge. We love grunge whether the sun sinks behind hills or the world frays at its forked ends. We are worn-out fingers on a ploughshare, the forgotten half-life of a smouldering song.