The Surreal Monologue of a Baby Grand Played… in Sexual Minor

What frisks Maestros
upon this, these slits between white,
black raised, inner ivory chest
nibbed with shrill ebony tinge?

It is all about the tone of cracks…
where sound bounds unto gutty wire, plucking
apart, and fucking lyrically;
Symphonies cut upon shanty accompaniment.

Alone she is barbed up keys. A lack
of lessons warble loose legs, knobby knees
strung to a sheath, a pit
of noise working out its clunks,

scoring stacks of sheets.
To reach to the back seats, creating
tactile forms, she continues to clank
babbling blunder, in hope of silence.

And it is a thin sounding day… to hear
through sinewy twangs, this unkept baby grand,
breaking in chambers, echoes
of fingertips always playing.