This minstrel of the mystic decade
will disentangle you,
muscle and skin,
from the marrow of white noise.
Grinding of his electric chisel,
a guttural shaving of those
superfluous parts of the mind,
carving off the flanks of
peripheral vision and
leaving only the perception of depth.
Then in that last patch of
between the eyes,
in which he has spared you;
on that pan of the mind,
he places the
solid palm of the ethereal sonic,
stretches it, a mile wide.
And you fear that you’ll fly apart
so close to the burning orb,
a white wavering band over a chasm of sound,
on which he plucks the lilting rhythms;
the last vision of Icarus.