"Terrorists of Vision" (New poem, 2022/06/11).

The first trace you leave on your tape
is also the last trace of
a psychedelic mourning
for the children of '68
in East Bloc countries
flashing their amplifiers
at the omnipresent plastic draw of death
in sheer summer clouds
honking

there is a law
the old guy says
while the young one shoots his guitar gun
without any warning
diminishing into the canvas
on which our mutual lives
evolve tribally
and there is no sense of time
space is forever
vibrating like the once-oceans of Mars

two voices entwined into one bass magma
shake the founds of age
splinters of the tape
bass and electric guitar
shaky teen voice
got nothing to sound good
but a lot to say
about
the blocks
in the high rise sunrise

of heavy July sun
dreaming
on my way from high school
I encounter the singer
the amethyst of her zodiac sign
heavy metal radio hit
a rugged cocktail poured down the conquistador's throat
induction of vermin ephemeris
and yes, she is perfect
but no one will admit it

maybe there is a way out of here
I think to myself
maybe it hides in the continuous drum of mourning
steer organ of dawn
drumming of the madman in the chapel
along Blake
and other “terrorists of vision”