Voices

Was the radio a wrong voiced-record

driving wild through the notes

of a glimpse noise,

crossing faster the road,

running for a silence

of the non-voiced gargoles?

It’s this gray-tortured scream
rolling down a hollow hill
the one you can fear,

ever-hear his soul,

to your heart

from your stretched

unbounded lullaby.

The slowed voice rumbling

giving an endless punch

in the brain

on the lips

on your teeth.

And then you feel
you need to go to sleep...