First Lessons on a Whore’s Mouth Harp

The best still play all tongue, and most with old
love letters and lungs. But sinners choose to kiss
all tooth and grind that steel as pelvic bone,
or bit, or even burden. Coo arrives
less like a doe’s wet cry, and more the harpy
machinations of the whimper of paper. Know now, most
audiences prefer the animal
to elected words. They want to hear you sob.
A name should help—Job, Job, Job–to arouse
ex nihlio. Let feigned clipped wing
seduce the false peregrine. And wretch
what poisons you down those peeling gullets,
ingest nothing, nothing’s in jest, not even
breath.  But bear in mind: this is no balloon,
child, but fire you must conjure from wet wood.