On Om

I took the vibrationary enlightenment path on the Northern line in November in search of sonic benediction. Here is what I found after that fateful trip on the underground.


Photo by Nina Saeidi

I wondered in the Shoreditch Vales and found a mighty sound-hall filled

With sweeping hair and riffs that curled

Around each brick and beam of light

To fill each heart with sweet delight.


And for each person in that room enlightenment did bloom

Upon their faces like a bruise,

A fractal sea of blood clots stared in wonder at the three up there, exhuming ancient eastern myth entwined around each pungent riff.


Al Cisneros’ voice rang deep,

Deeper than the mystery of Sleep.

Lichens grew in height and power

Until a wordless bursting song

Of distorted ecstasies was flung from his great tangled thunderous lungs.

His table full of wires hung from santoors, tamboors and guitars

Each felt his fingers drum the beat

That met with Amos’ pounding feet.


Each cymbal crash was met with peals of sweetest steel and

Falsettos clashed in harmony with Cisneros’ Rickenbacker rumble,


In ecstasies to Sinai’s tip climbed bass and drum and samples hit

The core of every pulsing heart until we were back at the start.

The end of Addis shuddered down with calls of sadness,

Darkness frowned upon the stage

And a single note more was not made


That fateful night,

Om had played.


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