DOVE TAIL

People have alarm bells

dug far underneath their eyes,

which really is part of the brain,

the pink bit

through the white.

No sound is real inside our heads,

sounds are external,

except the beats and trickery of our own hearts,

and the hearts under the chests we lay on.

When these alarms go off so suddenly 

we feel it in the tips of our fingers,

and heat spreads around our bodies,

we beg for an answer to cool us down, 

for an end to silent words,

ice for our throats that match our lips,

so no heated words fly out 

and stab away 

at fire,

with knives covered in oil 

to fume what is 

only ’ apparently ‘ 

sound.