vibrates the jazzy nazz into ether where mute
the planets decorate theyselves all gaudy but
parade a pearly will surely drift by datty flute.
Just a grey wall on this one where a mute speaks
in a series of barks that crush your understanding.
It's not a dream, it's a real reach for magnesium
or some fucking nostrum to assuage freakout pain.
Gone be deaf to Pan's music gone mixolydian
and one and two and into the green underbrush
where dis bidness done. Finds a prime meridian
along a vein plumped and ready. Ain't no blush.
Nothing. Nothing, Nothing. Only a slim breath.
Hopefully, it's something simple like death-
anything else is just so complicated.
Gone be deaf to Pan's music real real gone.