At bitchslap’s end the musicians irritate lunch time crowds with accordian music played on harps, with banana paste smeared like aural mustard along  passageways of precision-tuned acres of cement, with convulsions of silence where anecdotes used to rot. We huddle like fat, bloated flies on their childhood bedrooms’ windows, darkening the miraculously empty spaces of silence which portend coming catastrophes. Buzzers wail, ignored by those who set them off. Idiots of centuries past become gods of transportation between chocolated rocks and cardigan despots. Into garbled time we silence the noise, blanketing clotted storytelling with demonstrative mastication as the musicians dangle among reflections and shadows, beleaguring themselves with schizophrenic disconnect. Meaningless slogans and advertisements assume new meanings when the instruments from which they appear crease just so, this in spite of a strange woman’s beautiful lips cursing at them to lay flat. Starstruck? You cannot be impressed by these coffee shop cannibals any more than God thinks twice about pornographic thunder from foreign solar systems. Stop eating the alphabet. Wrestle instead with wild caught disorientations. Stop masturbating to license plates. Listen instead to roosters belching at moonlit bullfights. We face majestic disaster ahead. This plague of civilization will go without supper until its prophets prune icicles from the intervals of 28th century prattle. Listen to the music of the lunch time irritants. Listen as its recycled transience lifts convertible conversations to waist-level, lingering like a small hive of bees in a hungry nation’s underpants. Listen to this until the apocalypse. Listen for a thousand coffee-stained centuries. Listen to the music until it finally murders  winter.