a
jealous pair of cheekbones
(made me
jealous that is)
in a
scratchy sweater
eighties
and ironic
and in
need of an iron
and
smelling of cellar carpets
nothing
much to talk to
not even
much to look at
away
from the gin glimmer
and
pasty
lighting of a dive bar
but you
found my knob right away
and
found it responsive
and gave
a twist
tweaking
the gain
pumping
up the volume
dance
dance
dialing
diabolically
and I
sang for you
more of
a warble
smoke
too many cigarettes
to do
much else
but
there's some beauty there
right
inside the thinness
of an
amateur singer's voice
I only
had that single
control
I only
had that lone adjustment
to make
up to
ten
or down
to one
one
one knob
after a
while so tiresome
such a
boring thing
because
you've got
the two
hands
and more
sang out
my heart
sang out
my throat
sang out
the sinuses beneath
cheekbones
ordinary
in any light
and you
danced away
dejected
and pissed off
but not
before blowing out my speakers
and now
my songs
are all
like crinkling paper
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