A rose can say I love you and want you to be mine, A rose can say I thank you for being so very kind, A rose can say congratulations, whatever the occasion may be, A rose can say I miss you and wish you were here with me, A rose can say I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you in any way, A rose can say get well soon, May God bless you today, A rose can say I wish you happiness, and the best for you each day. A rose can say farewel when someone goes away, A rose can say hello, I’m thinking of you today, There’s just so many wonderful things that a rose can say, A rose can say goodbye when a love one is laid to rest, No matter what there is to say, a rose can say it best.
Thousands of soda chargers detonating simultaneously
at the one party
*
The aural equivalent of the smell of cheese fermented
in the stomach of a slaughtered goat
*
The aural equivalent of downing eight glasses
of caffeinated alcohol
*
Temperature: the cicada’s sound-editing software
*
At noon, treefuls of noise: jarring, blurred, magnified—
sound being pixelated
*
The audio equivalent of flash photography and strobe lighting
hitting disco balls and mirror walls
*
The audio equivalent of lightning hitting your face
*
The sound of cellophane being crumpled in the hands
of sixteen thousand four-year-olds
*
The aural equivalent of platform shoes
*
The aural equivalent of skinny jeans
*
All the accumulated cases of tinnitus suffered
by fans of Motörhead and Pearl Jam
*
Microphone feedback overlaid with the robotic fluctuations
of acid trance music
*
The stultifying equivalent of listening to the full chemical name
for the human protein titin which consists of 189,819 letters
and takes three-and-a-half hours to pronounce
*
The aural equivalent of garish chain jewellery
*
A feeling as if your ear drums had expanded into the percussing surfaces
of fifty-nine metallic wobbleboards
*
The aural equivalent of ant juice
*
Days of summer: a sonic treadwheel
When thistle-blows do lightly float About the pasture-height, And shrills the hawk a parting note, And creeps the frost at night, Then hilly ho! though singing so, And whistle as I may, There comes again the old heart pain Through all the livelong day.
In high wind creaks the leafless tree And nods the fading fern; The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, And cold the sun does burn. Then ho, hollo! though calling so, I can not keep it down; The tears arise unto my eyes, And thoughts are chill and brown.
Far in the cedars’ dusky stoles, Where the sere ground-vine weaves, The partridge drums funereal rolls Above the fallen leaves. And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so, It stills no whit the pain; For drip, drip, drip, from bare branchtip, I hear the year’s last rain.
So drive the cold cows from the hill, And call the wet sheep in; And let their stamping clatter fill The barn with warming din. And ho, folk, ho! though it is so That we no more may roam, We still will find a cheerful mind Around the fire at home!
