Dead Fawn On My Trail

I think of Brian Jones. A sitar

Ringing out, a game of five finger fillet

Plucking the fish eye lens with duende

Or walking barefoot over stones towards the evening star

And every tone is blue as hail, when after each bar

There’s always another, I think of Brian Jones.

I even think of poor Ophelia

The muse we never met, still to this day

Whose form was cast in the Scioto

Drunk as a log with nothing left to say,

But one last roach of nostalgia, and I think of Brian Jones.

How it’s perilous work, making art

Out of the moments love rubbed you the wrong way—

Yet, O how quickly that blooms into the old boot soul of a Loa!

The enantiodromia of strong feeling which makes of the hateful,

Sacrosanct. And reduces the thrust of all life but to a minor

Trope, grasping after flickers in the teleplay

As we die, just to feel alright. I think of Brian Jones.