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.
Purple bikini bottoms below sandy legs
Rising pyramids stretched to the sun
Like a cradle for our dance
And all that I was left inside her
In the desert outside Zhongwei.
Conjuring Georgia with Otis sang in solitude
Suffering vicarious Redding of Frisco Bay
Drowns the bluesman in soul appropriation
But preparing to circumscribe mine in New Orleans
Making sketches of the underground aviary
Generations of fans with no wings
Erasing the mojo colonial impulses take a needle to the third eye
Serving the State Man’s compulsion to procreate
Gaia on Frenchman Street day for night
Renouncing forevermore no Hoodoo spell or Loa devilment
But sole blackest of human urges to dominate.