Back­stage Pass

There are faces within our fables—forever cloaked by a child­like desire to repli­cate. Major events. A chord
pro­gres­sion. A roman­tic phrase, spe­cific to the smooth Venet­ian language—her five main vari­ants, con­spir­ing
to cap­ture: your sub­tlest heart­break / my unlikeliest closure—a dialec­tic loop whose every turn is said
to shed its own the­ory on the mak­ings of a star; but if you’ve heard one, you’ve been seduced by them all…

After dusk (after dusk) are echoes—of an age, wherein each step taken invoked an embell­ished sense
of ter­ror, while won­der was reserved for watch­ing: a hid­den net­work of rivers / turn red at the skin. See,
“the singed edges of the con­ti­nent I par­al­lel most” is the clos­est we’ve come to describ­ing our loss
and con­se­quen­tial lack of inter­nal con­flict, of a Super­nat­ural Com­men­ta­tor to say the magic words (to enter

An aban­doned story) go like this. And thus, on spe­cial occa­sions a mine may grant that it is less self
sus­tain­ing than work­ing through the land: a maxim which lends ten­sion to the image of a sky
set to repeat behind impro­vised fire—a scene made to keep “the pay­ing pyros” aroused
long after the chem­i­cals have set­tled. We’ve devel­oped a sys­tem that should amplify only those states

The Sun can­not dis­turb. The ebb and poten­tial flow in your cere­bral cor­tex—rem­i­nis­cence—has no basis.
Dec­o­ra­tive efforts, once indica­tive of taste (the phan­tom per­cus­sion of car­tridges / limbs)
stand on noth­ing / but remit­tent beliefs (say black geneal­ogy.) Evi­dence sup­ports the exis­tence of which
blinds, via a seam­less series of suf­fer­ing noise—have led us to dream that a draw­string just waits

To be found (point to your fatherland’s lat­i­tude, and now say longevity)—a sim­ple con­ven­tion rat­tling
like a cheap gui­tar against our globe’s tec­tonic walls—and the minds that inhabit it—are pulled
under an assump­tion not unique to musi­cians: the world will stop the glass will shat­ter the moment
I open my mouth. Or from the win­dows of babes: be care­ful how long you wish for (lest the light spill out—)