<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The Dulcimer-girls (for Coleridge)<\/strong> they’re the ones making the bloody noise <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\n(Oh, and the Dulcimer-boys)<\/p>\n
\nbanging on those lovely instruments
\non an Autumn night at 3 A.M
\nand it’s so nice – and, yes, I guess it’s Leeds –
\nbut I’d really rather like to sleep.
\nThough each resonant, softly-stricken sound
\nbothers me in euphony. But, now,
\nOh my god, it is the Dulcimen
\nbanging on those strings as they upend
\nBecks-cans outside of “Abyssinia”
\nolay-ing as the streets grow tinnier.
\nI suppose it’s nice! It brings back memories
\nof harmonies heard far away from Leeds,
\nfragrances carried by the cyclamen.
\nI definitely can’t get up again
\nbut there’s a pleasure to this heightened state
\nand thoughts cohere, exactly, when it’s late.
\nThe lesson? We might have to give up sleep
\nmaking each day a dreadful-darling dream
\nlike a dulcimer (!) way out of tune
\nbut still a dulcimer: a flower in bloom
\nquite nervously. But if I hear a sound again
\nI swear to God I’ll fucking kill those men.<\/p>\n