Poem: Birds From Hell

The music from a car downstairs
Is nothing but a broken sewer --
Filth spilled into empty spaces
Pumped into the air
Up and over my balcony --
Entering the pores,
My eyes, my nose,
It rots me from the inside out.
Never ceasing arguments next door
Pulse in the walls at four a.m.
Sleepy children start to cry.
One block over, two towns over --
Never ending train of noise.
Day after day it shakes the molecules apart
Till they are only vibrating strings --
And not the kind from string quartets,
Not the sweetness of cello and bass,
Just dissonant sound in the air
Like birds returning from hell
Singed and raw.