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Description
Music!
music
is all that makes sense anymore
it's only sensible
that a slicing of the air
in sound!
should be real love.

There is always
rhythm
sound
silence
and human–
something–
ingrained in its resin
encapsulated in black and white
or rainbow resplendent plastic circles on my fingers
wrapped in a jewel case.

It burns and blisters oh so quiet and–
until a gun pierces harmonies and
the saxophone becomes
the beating
screeching cry
of my soul.

I can relate to this.
I can live from this.
These fragments of realities
lutes and guitars
create so much
filtered by the human–
something–

Night's moths are broken
by German calling, yearning
Icelandic crooning chiming
a black and white warworld
crushing me under a
Flood
(I am no Noah
I have no Ark)
that I understand
in ecstasy
my lips part to cry
"I AM HOME IN SOUND"
i am home in growings
and swellings
and ebbings
splashings
tricklings
stormings
I could drink this instead
I could feast upon This
and learn to hate all else
everyone
everything
an this globe that is so quiet from afar
from this hive
that wishes to destroy

itself
as much as music
wants to make sense of it.

Goddamn how the world
makes such a big deal of
Nothings
like love.
and makes them lust.

diminish, senses!
let me dissipate
fruitfully
into that which I
truly love
and let me also
be beaten
and bruised
by tides of drums
oceans of orchestras
kill this sorry
overtangled
spider-spun earth
to my vision
and give me over
unto that which needs to be
my Heaven.

My Holy Land
is in the air.

Description
Music!
music
is all that makes sense anymore
it's only sensible
that a slicing of the air
in sound!
should be real love.

There is always
rhythm
sound
silence
and human–
something–
ingrained in its resin
encapsulated in black and white
or rainbow resplendent plastic circles on my fingers
wrapped in a jewel case.

It burns and blisters oh so quiet and–
until a gun pierces harmonies and
the saxophone becomes
the beating
screeching cry
of my soul.

I can relate to this.
I can live from this.
These fragments of realities
lutes and guitars
create so much
filtered by the human–
something–

Night's moths are broken
by German calling, yearning
Icelandic crooning chiming
a black and white warworld
crushing me under a
Flood
(I am no Noah
I have no Ark)
that I understand
in ecstasy
my lips part to cry
"I AM HOME IN SOUND"
i am home in growings
and swellings
and ebbings
splashings
tricklings
stormings
I could drink this instead
I could feast upon This
and learn to hate all else
everyone
everything
an this globe that is so quiet from afar
from this hive
that wishes to destroy

itself
as much as music
wants to make sense of it.

Goddamn how the world
makes such a big deal of
Nothings
like love.
and makes them lust.

diminish, senses!
let me dissipate
fruitfully
into that which I
truly love
and let me also
be beaten
and bruised
by tides of drums
oceans of orchestras
kill this sorry
overtangled
spider-spun earth
to my vision
and give me over
unto that which needs to be
my Heaven.

My Holy Land
is in the air.