Asterisk when the bongos go missing, some thief made of alter ego and afterthought brushes the yellow Cobain cowlick out of his eyes, ducked down behind the side door of a Portland pawn shop —this percussionist who sneaks around wearing the torn to shit lumberjack shirt, holding on to a fifty like a heart beat in the stiffest breeze, and his guilty glance , simply a squeezed frame, it says these beats basically the same, yet gone now and forever gone, the beat like an add-on that the dead can’t put their finger on—go ahead, switch to castanets instead, I say, and bottle caps—tubular bells such as them that exist in The Exorcist, a thousand little whispers like pop rocks from the backfire of a flame, and a hearse: they say we missed you today in church, we missed you we missed you, astral ...
Like the title says.