Horn Blowin' Blues

I aimed my octaves
out into the nightscape
toward her little house
where she scuttled away
and shuttered herself
from my hearty serenado.

Fluttery arpeggios
wasted away into thinning
(and chilling) climate
like so many sour little farts
despite elicitations into
brittle indifferent ears.

"I need soothings of Mahler!"
she said into her hot-line
to the police station ...
"Mozartian whinneys
and baroque bum blasts
do nothing to emburgeon
libido. Come immediately!"

John Birkbeck

If you've any comments on this poem, John Birkbeck would be pleased to hear from you.