Telefono Phonics

Your ear's infected, meinen lieben shatz.
The tiny lieder tickle through the holes,
the curly saxophones of speech. What news?
I run my index round the open conch,
dab at its baubles, tap the sexy jawbone,
watch the tongue flick out its sounds. My German
founders on the air, too flat, too false,
it stinks, like sheiza. You're not even German.

Your ankles cross beneath the table, pebbles
swept from some little stream in Nayarit,
your nails not gussied by some whorish reds,
nor flaked azuls. I listen like a chimp
and breathe the dust, filthy and ignorant,
mutter que linda ach du Lieber. Nada.

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