cARTESIAN wAX*

My contrapuntal-machine is whirling in the cones and stirrups of my ear, a cornucopia of whizzing and buzzing. This hardening, this cementing, this calcification is driving me mad, madder perhaps. I hear things, noises, sounds, banging and chipping, a collateral crashing, a dissonant clashing in the incompetence of my ears. My un-deafening machine scallops sound into bite-size monads of re-amplified noise, turning sense into nonsense, nonsense into sense, senate into insensate. I poke Q-tips in the quail of my ears, exhuming curds of paraffin, an autism of sounds buffered by Cartesian wax, a Platonic form of the form of forms, a cuneiform of forms, a formless form of forms. Going deaf is a quietening silence, a stone quickening in the calm of my ears, a soundless sounding, a dissonant clashing, this constant whizzing and buzzing, this whirling whirl of black noise, this hardening.