OBNOXIOUS BEETHOVEN

 

 

Low octaves move in intervals of tides

with notes like dissipating gulls

scattering to the blue, to the ether—

separating like black and white ivory

 

keys thrown into the atmosphere

aggressively thrown like immigrants

to land like depressed merchants

to depressed stores like spitballs

 

to children. I am a classical piece,

one listened to by Bukowski perhaps

during a lone binge meant to be played

by a blind pianist, yet I’m played on

 

a simple kazoo with noise like a crying child—

obnoxious sounds unharmonized,

hovering around the norm,

creating my own set of harmonic

waves and octaves and trepidations.

It is a foul sound.