VOGON
Because a raven is like a writing desk.
A mournful brine drips from the paraphone,
it reaches down the tether, faint, obscure.
A fingering sustains one monotone,
distorted still — yet modelled as it were.
A hammer-voice between the notes of air
untunes desire from its tethered hand.
No splendor dwells within the bass’s care…
Perhaps unloved, can love still truly stand?
Author: Veron
