ambitionistic

I picture this whole thing wrapped
in soft wings,
waiting to burst forth as song, metamorphosed
- my low borderline-melodic semi-staccato
delivery as suggested in this first line,
only with its sing-song allowed to breathe, expand
and stretch out into the verse

- nothing show-offy; a voice understated melodically
like a wryer and wiser Bernard Sumner, only
with poetry to sing, instead of

New Order lyrics. The music, too
could be drawn from a sort of New
Order style arrangement, only not hooked
up to its usual EKGs of sequencers, bleats
and sound affect, but rather: pull the plug,

make the body of the tune jump up
from its sickbed drone on acoustic strum
deep thrum and gong - improvised instruments,
such as a genius might cobble and clang together

from a junkyard and record an album with,
for a change of pace.

But sorry! I got carried away, this is a poem. A poem
is not just some potential set
of song lyrics,

as if roving packs
of disemvoiced songs were hunting
the countryside, the rockside, the discoside
even, seeking to devour any reasonably rhythmic rhymed
quatrains they can track and bring down, assuming
they can choke them down. A poem isn't
an aspiring song. It is already song. A poem
doesn't need music, because it already

is.

Nevertheless, I'd like to give that album a spin,
it sounds

kind of interesting.