Your Voice

Your Voice

Your voice sounds like a conrod being pushed
through an engine block, or a camshaft graunching
its way out of its bronze retaining bush,
like a blacksmith’s hammer striking a fatally flawed weld
and shattering the integrity of the metal’s crystal bed.

Your voice sounds like the clatter and whine
as the oil spills out, at forty thousand feet,
of the passenger plane and its Rolls Royce jet turbine,
until it shrieks and explodes, like an angel’s guffaw
and scatters its entrails across the troposphere.

Your voice sounds like a dog when you’ve stood on its tail,
or a treble church bell that was cast with a flaw
and now sings off key in a devilish peel,
its dissonance rings like a 1930s telephone
in whose klaxon the aforementioned dog has buried its bone.

Your voice sounds like the huff, puff and wheeze
Of a ten-ton steam roller, that ran off the road
And smashed through the door of an accordion factory,
Playing polkas, waltzes, as it levelled the manufacturing line,
Mostly in B flat, and excruciatingly out of time.