Synaesthetes night out at Cafe Oto

This is an impression of an impression,
the hyperreal of ketchup in a painting,
a kid’s wax crayon drawing,
a pulp paperback, lurid and lovely,
a pastiche of unstitched pop songs.

This music tastes not of red wine but cold beer,
electronic gizmos sharpen silence,
club cut hair is feather black on cheek bones,
basket weave lantern throws honey light.
Beside the prepared piano, blonde wig
over her filbert head, the woman sings
of sparrows and white flowers
only her scarlet stockings anchor her to earth.
She is utterly serious, and utterly amused.
Guitar feedback flocks birds into our chests,
sliver whining mobile worms under layers of chords,
water condenses on the window to the street.

My hand slices acid trails in air.
You decant cold Brooklyn Beer into my wine glass,
everything stands for something else.
The two minute encore satisfies brains bathed in dissonance.