the trombone farts
a rich and earthy sound of compost
decomposing, the busy work of worms and bugs,
of blood and bone to ash and dust,
and then, the hushed nocturnal gnawing
of silverfish through bolts of silk and ruined knits,
behind the door to Blackbeard’s hoard
the trumpet blasts
a defiant passage through the fray
of keyboard fuselage and noodling guitar’s
electric challenge to the ear of human sound,
as breathtaking as a pirate raid, as dry as ice
and rage, the shiv goes straight to the heart,
the blade slices clean through the cheek
the drummer smiles
a ripple of dissent on the face of victory,
keyboard quails, in sympathy the trumpet wails
as percussion storms triumphant over a world
united in battles won and lost, they reminisce
of greening fields, the heady smell of mulch
and the birth of another lark——what fun
the trombone farts
15 June 2010
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