the kickdrum pumps like a piston
the hihats flare out like a firework
and the splash and sway of cymbals
slink like a last swallow of martini
In between the feedback and the steel strings and the hazy waves of static that crumple onto itself jagged from the speakers
one final wrist-wrap with black micorophone chord
dead-on fingernail dig in palmstroke
toes curl up in the sneakers, teeth crunch grit
but that first strike never comes
that roaring 20's mafia bullet style POW straight to the heart
no the notes never come
the sounds doesn't get there.
I can't hurt you
at least I wished that were true
and it's coming down now, I can feel it like shadows on my back
that dull air rush before the tidal wave
where for that moment things feel calm and cool and you just sink into the white noise of that
curling wave that gathers and then lashes
further
Now comes that sonic boom, fueled with plush toy backpacks and scented romance novels and going to the gym and Italian parks and old Weezer albums and nuetral evil and thai food and hot tubs and New York City and everything else, and the ocean practically seems to breathe, swells on the surf, subsides, comes back again, pulses with that heartbeat
that steady rhythm that seems to flood me, saying
you belong here
a switchback backtracking past
watching the sail go down the mast
but this seething feeling this seemingly seamless perfect blue tide just says
you belong here
froth curls and foams, slicking the beach with swath after swath of sighing strokes - swelling, coming back to the ocean now
with each and every pull
and how
the current just takes me right under
going back to what is both awful and limitless and both ecstacy and anguish.
head above water, just
head above water
and keep treading