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Do you keep files on hits you score in this no-life's bar, its flies-on-shit ambiance done up in steakhouse red and black? Your demeanor's an average embarrassment but humiliation, that's what my soundhole's for. Taking it out of me, out on you, those sloehounds with gin and katgut paws swap licks like slick wasps. A mouth to emit the groans in time by item, an angry mite or a moth that leaves a sound like snow on air. Why is it insects evoke for me intersecting sound and ears? Because they're annoying? Because the internal sections are hammers, anvils, tympani? (Why not fish? A riot of scrod shift on the rods of corti.) No wonder the timid live in fear of paying for vile fare afterwards. A pin might bust loose and give away its pent-up plot: Why did I waste as wet a kiss on so sick a stew? What do you care if I erase your song? Why can't you reach what I can see and hear? How can we tell who we'll let go wrong?


guitar amputee

garrett caples