I see the backs of people’s heads like a bubbling pan of milk

while the band are weaving filamental feelings into a new sort of music

against the black backdrop, a display cloth sharply presenting bewhiskered jewels

and battered gear sprouting curly leads and lights.

The sounds sweep around the room like a flock of excited ravens

spinning spells, murmuring then cawing idiosyncratic secrets into each of our open ears.

Boiling milk and swirlng ravens, whiteness and blackness and all in between.

The crowd reeks gently of sweat,

faint taints of ancient patchouli,

and the sweetness of beer from plastic cups

while the ghostly gusts of smoky gigs haunt us

in the scented clouds of dancing vapers.

The hard wooden floor bounces beneath me

and I reel with the accidental barges of the bubbling crowd

as my heart joins the swirling flock

and The Great Om Riff sweeps across the room Japanese style.

Above the boiling and the steam and smoke I taste the breath of heaven.

All is exactly as it is.