Next door declares its augmentation with screeching saws and thumping hammer blows. Builders’ lore did not prepare me! I turn a feral thing, snarling as drills roar out their diatribes. Dumpsites for thoughts are chock-a-block, and other senses in decline. Each pore an ear now, each orifice. We dream of dams and flight and being drunk on words.
Headphones harangue us for an ode: best love for Bose, I sing. But fortitude is thin as fickle, smokes fags behind the neighbours’ shed. She thinks of sourcing hearing out. Someone fetch her!