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.

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