Rows of Blake portraits
smear and animate my infant bed.

Reborn- martyred & adored
life begins again
in fragments & cemented in songs to sad to sing.
I feel transcendant in that rectangular exposure
I see the nose of my toes wiggling;
I see the cadence of notes scaling the air
the drummer boy and his erratic grungy hair
tickling the feet of heroines
his arms stretched to the ends of the earth
to pound out the beat, the kick of his bass
harder than roman hammers;
the feedback of sounds struggling to find space
the twang of the beast’s mouth.
I would cut my soul wide open if it meant
more breathing room for the next note.

And then, after the reverbaration,
the manic roar is swallowed whole
a quick gaspppppppp! and then,
silence.