There are unnamed beings in the world
that no one wants to acknowledge.

For less than 100 years we have locked away
legions of sub-gods in favor of a brighter world

and the world has gotten darker
in their extended absence.

Tired of wating for less boring entities
than vampires and zombies

to become trendy enough
to move freely about the popular imagination?

I say it is their time… 
our time.

Hpw shall we free them?  
It’s not like they’re fairies:  they need more 

than kid applause to stay mobile and flexible
and free.  A little fear to feed on, to grease gears.

So, strike: strike an anvil, take hard exception,
strike up a chord progression in a key to a passage.

Something about distortion, overdrive, sustain…
something about sounds unheard ever on Earth less than 100 years ago.  

Something about making those sounds…
about the freedom to make such sounds.  

To know how.  To know how to do it in more than one fashion.  
To make them at the perfect time.  

To get that it’s still music even when it is
dissonant and discordant and atonal and out of strict harmonic standards…

To meet the eyes of others who also get it as you are playing it
and settle in and lock down and ride it to the Other Side of Right Now,

the unacknowledged side, the dismissed side,
the Dionysian flight side…

Skies of steel, lead, aluminum, iron, gold, silver.
Bronze, copper, tin; the malleablilty of these,

their clashing and clanking; sheets and bars and ingots falling,
breaking the door to where the sub-gods have been kept.

When they break out, when they rise singing,
we rise singing.  When they roar up to view,

we roar up to view.  Is it any wonder we 
stir inside when we hear

distortion, overdrive, sustain,
the tone breaking up regardless of the headroom?

Is it any wonder that we close our eyes
and surge inside?