No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
according to Coleridge. I’m not sure
if I got the second half right. My friend
Coleridge was interrupted
by the beeping of my hearing aid, reminding me
it needs to sleep, its stoplight flashing red, halting
the interaction, making me say goodbye
before I want to. So I couldn’t ask
for him to tell me more, tell me how
Dissonant sounds do not tell of Life but what about
the bubblegum pop of a gun, telling life to fuck right off
simultaneously making the blood of its gunman scream
so, so loud, his heart a blur, his memories a blur,
his sight clouded by tears that make no sound at all
when they fall and hit the golden, filled-in halo of the drum
signaling the end of st. Peter’s lunch break.
What about the shriek of those gates,
that mother, that brother, those swallows
fighting in the tree
watching over the funeral?
Is that not life? Not all of it but surely
a part of it, a part that makes the blood thrum,
that tears something a
part that hurts the ears but tells, shouts, reeks
of life? I wish I could ask
but for now, I hear nothing, so
I can only assume
that my heart still beats, somewhere south
of my now-empty ears.
Simon Hauwaerts is a young writer who was born and raised in Belgium. He now studies English Literature in the UK and was the poetry and short story editor at The Channel, his university’s literary magazine. Simon will read and write anything, but his preferred genres are horror, poetry, and nonfiction. He lives in Brighton. He keeps forgetting social media exists and does not particularly enjoy being reminded, but he can be found on Instagram at @simonhauwaerts.
