HIGHLIGHT

Blast out of the ears
through positronic waveforms
of miniature industrial speakers
opening out to the
last of your heroes,
all of whom died long
ago and are now nothing
but carpark android bench-
poles. How we
exist within the
apartment of our reason does
not emancipate our swing
dancing desires. Microphone
magic must magnify musical
memories aloud.
Wooden brainstems and an
egg apparatus,
smoke from an upturned lamp,
and the crying woman
turns away.