Travel Shorts

Surfing along your auditory canal I can
bring you notes. Though mine
will always be
more Proust than Strauss.

I hover around your vestibule;
an irritating buzz of feedback
like that old punk club in London.

My heart's beating like a hammer
dipping my quill into your incus,
I then stirrup or stir up with
the mellifluous sounds of metronome
echoing through your cochlea.
Your robust fingers picking out chords
and aurally feeding my oratory.


You create a humming inside my auricle;
it growls into my being and holds me still;
a forced silence.


You are sibilance and music;
a smouldering underground jazz club
somewhere sexy like Paris.


I am the poet's corner of a café
too many awkward chinking
coffee spoons clanking
choking on ejectives.