Bach plays loud above a-rhythmic freeway groans
and jerk and gun shifts of shiny metal hulls,
coffee in paper cups, sleep edged with thought,
bodies within bodies, slaves of slaves.
Pop-rock plays sedation when florescents buzz
and black phones swarm like angry bees
spinning aggression from hive instinct.
The office man yawns, the office girl grins
and pop rock plays a love song
none contend yet all believe.
But Bach plays loud a second world
once heard never again possible to ignore.
When a soul through a medium a hundred years old
breathes a pitch that vibrates the spheres
and builds the release of up looking down,
I see aggression like cars-silent objects moving-
and in the void I find that world
still marked and living.
Pop-rock chastises imagination
and straps with silk, black bands
the erotic pulse to the image bed-
get me home, get me laid,
get me money, I’ll be ok.
Pop-rock sings a sex dirge where
the stifled cubicle births a bored frustration.
But Bach plays loud above a-rhythmic freeway groans
and jerk and gun shifts of shiny metal hulls.
We close our eyes, we frantic speed.
We sensual blind, we dream of dead stopping.
Coffee back in paper cup, thought edged with sleep,
body within body, slave of slave,
I am ready to cut these weights