Is it the sound of rain, or rain
Distorted, a downpipe, the pitch
Of blue harmonics in a score of blue?
There, the sound, and then there’s you,
Grand arbiter, the governor of loops,
By whits, you pulse, you impulse to the drip,
And there, you hear, in time, everything,
Everything imparts reverb, everything,
Birthing stars, volcanic blips, the mind.
Is it enough to hear your voice pause,
A multiverse away, like TV news,
Heard, streetwise, in prophetic riffs?
To hear you move, by tonal raps against
Yourself, hear you drawing nearer,
Hear you in silken sound-scapes, repeat,
Each step within the biosphere, repeat,
Can you hear me now? The harmony,
Never before heard, in allied time.
Where, exactly, in my future mind,
Will you be playing? In gabled woods?
Shall I prepare a festival and shake
My tambour to your drum-machine?
Wave on wave, waterbirds surf
The heavens, for the end is always,
Timelessly, beginning the next curve
Of justice. I don’t wish to march, no more,
But soar, the pinion in a curving wind.
By the sound of it, we dance closer,
In reverberating essence,
Polar, we press our hearts, only, ahead.
Drips of rain falling on paper,
Eternal exclamation marks,
How each, the incidental holds to you,
How the particular is first out
Of phase, and before too long, we rely
On it, to bring the music to the future.
The Future of Music
15 September 2017