Death Of The Cool Poem by Wyn Cooper

breath on a spool
that unwinds into
sounds so loud
they injure ears,
find fear in chords
so rare they haven't
been invented yet,
make stops where
others would keep
playing, scatter eerie
notes across a room
that stands in
for everywhere
else.

The trumpet glistens
in the low bar
light, sends furtive
signals to the bass
and drums, a guitar
that sounds like
gutters might sound
if they were tuned
to this station,
the one called loss,
so severe it makes
shrill noises until
someone turns it
off.