Here's a couple poems (sorry I can't get the formatting quite right, some of the lines in "portamento" cascade nicely):
Her piano teacher, she said, told her to keep playing
even if mistakes were made.
Mine, however, kept
a half-foot wooden dressmaker’s ruler hovering
above the hands on the keys, ready to strike
miscues, wrong notes,
being as fingers are,
mistakes were made.
We learned portamento;
just as our violin cousins in adjoining studios
under the crushing threat
imposed by needlenose pliers.
The music continued.
A little evil, a small illness.
Why does it sound like pastry?
And vaguely remembered incorrectly,
a euphemism for orgasm,
which is neither evil nor ill.
Is any evil so little, illness so small
that it ceases to be wicked and ill?
Oh, now I see what it does to a body.
Yes, it is evil. Small is relative.
I see Gutted has been nominated for a Lammy. Good news. I think it's a wonderful book.