Thick Rib of the Lamentation Animal

To rub one part of I against another to create music.
This violin of oneself, this rough strum of I, arc of wing over thick rib. This masturbatory chirping like the meat of God clenched in your teeth, an apostrophe giving aloneness possession over the inarticulate, a bridge between chords.
Fugues of I divide into layers of sound.
Grass hums.

Antenna of I bob like a TV set with legs smashing its machine head against a wall. TV is not lamentation. TVs are formulated by a principle of equal opportunity. I resemble them only in blankness. Their music siphons static for mimicry and brings filth back to the fly. I forms its own harping.

I is the key of the thick rib.
Incessant collisions with I, always of I, I the eternal stranger. Do not deny it. Transcendence is the fallacy of music. Sing love. Love is a burglar in the house of I. Marriage is an exchange of voices in repetition, in echoes, in tonal dependence. Widowing is the gospel of I mourning itself. Death of I gives a quiet voice back to the multitudes. Lamentation burrows in the mouth of its widow.
There is nothing beyond what the thick rib says.
I is never.
I is born below its own avalanche.