Devil’s Music
by Sabrina Dawkins
I judge the worth of what I consume
by how it changes me internally.
Audible trauma: bangs, booms of relentless bass
pushed me down to a dungeon in my stomach.
Didn’t know hell could be reached while alive.
My soul lives in forehead,
then neck, then chest, then slides
down to navel;
with each bass thump,
a lower level achieved.
Lower I sink in my chair
without moving.
It’s illusion, but I’m sinking.
It’s confusion but I’m thinking
that I like this catchy little beat.
Sinking lower and lower,
this music mass inside
seems mostly detached from me,
held by a foreign ghost hand.
But I’m falling, and I’m sinking.
Snap you fingers, hypnotist.
I would break your expensive disc, entertainer,
had my ears not taken the first hit
of that eardrum powder, white and loose,
bouncing off bass onto major organs
as my lower body drains all my weight.
I sit slumped but upright.
And I cannot move.
Bass as a hand inside pulling down my interior
like a child climbing curtains.
Will I burst from this concentration
of my insides pulled low
as ghost fingers hide its hand?
I’m sinking but I love your flow,
how that vibration enters me, takes control,
the weight immobilizing me to my chair.
My soul is heavy, and in my belly
it lay injured, rapped by bass.