Shaman Hair

I see it before me like a window,
peering in to that world beyond,
like a tranuniversal voyeur,
sneaking glimpses of what I am not.

And as I write these words,
do Venetian snares play,
a simple melody that fingers may filet.

And does the night cry for ecstasy?
With blaring siren in pitch of orgasmic cry,
now but a harpy in the night to the subtle ear,
and a screech and wail to the gentleman's conch.

And what is inside my eyes,
if he is not a serial killer,
let my soul be eaten by satan,
for he is sin,
sin incarnate,
and his car runs on diesel so he's fucking the earth up too.

And sometimes I shoot people from the other side of the globe,
even though I'm just hitting buttons on an Ex Box or whatever,
because I have no time for such trivial pursuits.

I am the universal BLINK.
The millisecond in time that was me.