Long have I lived in the outlet store
Of assembly-line music,
There, it filled me
With ethereal echoes
Horizons to follow,
Facing overwhelmed eyes.
I understand now that the musical material poured out on our waves, blaring through concert speakers, can never quench any thirst.
In vain, it aims at quenching our thirst for drunkenness.
I listen to the sound playing underneath those radio frequencies,
The sound identity-starving program grids can never truly hook.
For it can never be their target.
A sound guiding our soul further down,
A wave of waves where a soul can peacefully rest
In all confidence, it will hear the gentle stream
Of light emanating from the Mother of Emotions
Putting an end to our search for substitute nipples.
I taste it as a primitive instinct : its underwater flavors teach me
To slow down the beat and blunt the edge of perceptions
In the all-pervasive horizon of Marine Universal.