PERFORMANCE

The brain ascends the podium, taps.

Eye corners watch his baton rise,

then bowing¹ arms saw rosin from horse hair.

Now woodwind phalluses toot and croon and blow and minuet,

as, for a moment of arachnid affectation,

fingers climb a trilling web

before the heart’s five chambers roar

their drumstick pulse

while highly polished lungs

bell out soft wind,

brass tracheas scratching effulgent nails

across your ear

and bronchi Wagnerise the whole affair,

in out, in out.

The storm abates,

the ECG is unmoving now,

and shining lungs are emptying

saliva on the floor.

Legs sway as thighs hug resonating wood;

a triangular vulva pings,

and brazen breasts clash in the air. 

The brain’s baton’s still.

Someone coughs.

Applause.

The body disintegrates.