It is not music that arrives like flickering light
from a candle—measured, appreciated, then kept
in the soul’s gallery where aesthetics live—
no, it is a shining sphere of force
that pulls the listener in,
makes the body its played instrument
plucked with moving air.
This is the physics of immersion:
the boom that hits, not as a wave arriving
and passing by,
but as the tingling atmosphere itself,
wrought through the earth, the sky
as raw pressure surrounding you, pounding skin,
vibration becoming structure
you stand within.

The aggression doesn’t strike—
it wraps, envelops, chains,
makes the air an invisible sprite with weight,
and you the centre around which
distortion orbits, feedback loops,
put in motion by the double-kick
drum’s seismic force.

And the poetry? It doesn’t come to you
like verse on a pretty page,
or a recitation where each word falls
as something held and contemplated,
no, it consumes, takes you inside
the dark lyric’s throat where meaning
is uttered molten, unresolved, hypnotising,
where words form ritual incantation,
or guttural truths that bypass
the polite distance of interpretation.

Metal makes no space for witnessing,
for you are the field’s marrow
where the electromagnetic surge
folds you with its own
relentless equation
as participant, as ecstasy, not audience,
thrown into this power
that knows no distinction,
and permeable you are
in heart, feeling, gesture,
as it claims your being,
dismantling and reassembling.

 

2/2/2026