Chia Pet Choir Practice

A structure of valves,
Mouths singing, touching each other somehow
Shuts pink off from gray and shouts are eaten
Like blossoms after the fish dish,
The scent, thank heavens,
one before the other.
Those perfect chords
Trained uselessly and then broken
Are whispered down by their new siren sperm,
To steal their song and make them brittle,
One day puked into holy sinks,
To seep back into baptized babies
And swim in through the firsts of leaky screams.

But sometimes the pretty salted spreading
Of crystalline shaken halos,
Rocked off of their angelic heads
And cast away rusting in a
A grated bin
Gets pecked instead
by things with tails to grow
Protein glowing whiskers
And divine wiggling snouts,
to giggle hymns into profane chambers:
Broken bottles under fingers
Curled like stuck with glue.
Little golden glitter specks may corona the mouth
Of some frozen man too old for it to enter,
crumpled-up and a stranger to the day before.
A driveling dumpster deathbed
Moistened by falsetto
Grows a coffin cushion,
a freed Aztec bush, released from a terracotta cage.
Cauliflowering newsprint would lay comfort down
To tempt the callused kneecaps from the splintery pews