the sound engineer
belies his title
reproducing the spaghetti
of his dope-addled
nervous system
in the straggling knots
and trip-wires
of mis-connected mic' leads
in a realm of mysterious
hums and rumbles
of ear-gouging screeches
from overfed loudshriekers
this sorceror's apprentice
makes a trumpet a kazoo
a bongo into gunfire
a bass a bison's groan
eventually
the question must be asked:
excuse me, mate
are those ears
painted on?
© Paul Taylor 2005
This poem is included in the trombone poetry album, for the record.
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