This voice

calls my soul at night
out of its deep pockets
like the bullroar of frogs
in a downpour,
emerging out of nowhere
from the shadows
behind the growl of thunder,
closing down all my roads.
I think we’re stuck here.
Hunker down, lover.
We’re going nowhere tonight.

This voice—

its deadpan delivery:
all its curled tendrils,
its ferns and mosses
of undercover laughter
and the times it pauses
to wrap a gift for me
just right—

this liquid gold injection
waking up every cell in me,
making all their tiny organelles
blush and drop random objects
into the live feed
of my bloodstream

sometimes it’s lush
like a weighted blanket,
its soft cells
stitched with granite
and blue velvet twilight—
and sometimes
it sings me to sleep

and when all the world’s loudness
batters and shakes my trees,
it becomes my sonic bubble bath,
a sick bass track
I can sink my heart into—
all warmth and relief,
its black arts
of mischief and tenderness
undressing my eardrums,
caressing my demons
adjusting all my knobs and dials
with a frequency
that’s become my

this voice

is its own entity.
I don’t give a damn what it says to me—
terms of service, disclaimers,
exorcisms, jingles—heck,
ingredients on a cereal label—
it’s all love songs to me.
The phone’s become my seashell
and this voice, the ocean’s roar—
all its curled-up secrets
are reaching out so far
to touch me
inside the pink nautilus
of my cochlea,
disturbing my delicate balance
and infecting me
with delicious vertigo.
I’m off the hook with desire
and I can’t seem to hang it up.
I carry it in my walk
and the reverb in my dialect.
I’m scripting and sampling it
without meaning to.
(You know I’m weird like that.)
My tongue carries precious things
so my ears won’t lose them.
On my inner SoundCloud nine,
you’re always on repeat.

This is all we have now
and sometimes it’s enough.
It’s kind of a fetish,
but it’s becoming
my main dish.
It reaches up from behind
and grabs me,
whispering quirky indecencies.
(I’m trying to get the laundry done.)
My ears are adapting
to dry land,
growing third legs
so they can subsist
on all this separation.

Dial me up tonight
(because you know
we can’t dial it down.)
My phone’s lit up again.
Turn off the the lights
and draw the curtains.
Its neon glow spins a trance in me,
eases off the pants on me
and I think I’ll need to
take this call alone.

© Psyche Marks 2017

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