The most intriguing member of the cast is counter,
not revolutionary but tenor, his high pitch
confusing men and women he’ll encounter,
believing him to be a diva bitch.
The noise is constant-unending
It's almost intolerable to bear.
Noise, noise, noise, loud whistling
NOISE! Sir! You've just got to just grin & bear.
Within a modern Miró minute is
a Dutch interior, man with lute. The tinnitus
disturbs a lovely viewer in the crowd,
who wonders why the world seems always loud.
I have this ringing in my ears;
a humming, a buzzing sound.
I’ll describe it so you can relate;
It’s like a summer night,
A cold wind blew this hispanic man to me
A New York warrior fighting to be free
Why would anyone drift to my headspace
For advice for comfort for perhaps a trace
I love my tinnitus
The Roaring buzz
The Thundering ring
The Constant wail
Now footsteps on shingle. Make of it what you will. Seabirds roost
on the breakwaters, accustomed, of course, to twilight.
The spirit lamp in that house on the headland could easily fall and spill
and the fire burn all night. Some time later a subtle ghost,
yourself in memory perhaps, might well set foot
up there amid clinker and smoke, the whole place silent and still
except you bring in the tic of cooling timbers, and then the birds in flight.
Now chains through gravel. Make of it what you will.