Bleary Sound

Foghorns don't candle chewy sticks
Mastication, it raises the neck hairs
A bar covered in stale beer and dust
Demotes the nose to footstool
Feet down, face burrowed
As far back into itself as the 
Head's front allows

I hear the wasps gathering steam
It's going to be a yellow spring
Dotted red and red and red

No knock-down lagged-out internet
Can predict the way I feel
Even when the clouds are bricked
The sound is muck 
And my shoulders insulted my neck
And their fistfight cleared the room