Bach plays loud above a-rhythmic freeway groansand 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 and fly.