This poem was submitted by Allergic to Sound reader, Ashlan

my tears dissolving
in a flood of curdled milk
spewing from that mouth
from that bulbous woman
that she-devil spilt-salted
over my left shoulder

that bulbous woman caterwauling
penetrating past my earbuds
of riffs and drums and crunch
and catharsis
which only trickled
for me in the weeks past

that bulbous woman brass-abrasing
loose-jawing-hem-n-hawing
scratching louder
than my scratching pen
than my stream-of-consciousness
thoughts I anxiously grasped at
like a ripcord to the chute
that should have pulled me
into Summerland

that passing train
complementing cacophony
counting boxcars
eighteen nineteen twenty
trying-not-finding diversion
twenty-one two three
finding only a watched pot
fourty-nine fifty
waiting to boil

my fingers slipped
in belched emissions
through curds and discord
my pen slicked
my fingers faltered
my pages sodden and soured
no chute caught
like a yanking savior
instead hurdled headfirst
into Dixieland

my boiled-blood dissolved
in a flood of curdled milk
spewed from that mouth
from that bulbous woman
that she-devil spilt-salted
over my left shoulder