FLAT POWER SPECTRAL DENSITY (NO SELF REMIX)

Pregnant mindbelly.
Detached, ethereal fetuses

generating hypnotic tones of aural sex,
motorboating their cherubic little lips

in the amniotic fluid, the sonic equivalent
of the Rapture in full reverse.

Theologians, I implore you,
there is something holy in this

audio pastiche tickling my eardrums with
wet pinky fingers made of music;

the soundtrack, such a sharp atmospheric contrast
to the life story it scores, with its poor character

development. And my feet sticking to the floor.
Sounding like the future if this were the past

is a symphonic quality held in high esteem.
The hum heard between walls, that white noise

in a black room, is retrospective foresight asking
what happened? But if we keep our thoughts still enough

we can hear our organism playing music
through an infinite series of biochemical processes;

our own DNA warbling away, trilling the song of creation.
Somewhere between mind and heart,

pale horses tow gilded wagons
with a cacophonous carousel calliope caboose,

the chromatic cavities whistling the steam of muses.
When the temperature of the steam is just right,

I put a stethoscope to my neck and listen.