From the deep, dark eye, the fat 
bellow stoking air, the hairs 

that line ear caverns vibrate. Echo 
thumps through muscle threads, 

through whatever threads of reason 
remain, shredded by tweeter, by 

treble, the shrill thinning 
of conviction. The smooth black 

globe throbs, a sub-
terranean hum, bumping 

the beat often confused
with hearts, pulsing us 

onward, switched up every now
and now. Now, from the spun 

and spinning magma
of a dark planet, bass bears 

heat and rattled sound
to their graves, bound 

by each changing track. 
Every album drops 

to silent headphones.