Wires and capacitors on a table
are intended to modify sound-waves.
Quarter-inch cables crawl between the jacks
of pedals used to wreak sonic havoc.
Prototyping-boards lay strewn on tables
their purpose obscure, known to only one:
the tinkerer, the artist-creator,
in search of ways to modify noises.
Why does he want to make music from noise?
Surely there are better uses of time?
Undaunted by opinions such as these,
the noise musician creates a palette.
It's a palette of sounds he can choose from,
to assault the eardrums of the masses
or make textures for one to get lost in,
or sometimes to hammer on the ego.
Discovering noise is finding one's self
buried in a conformity-dug grave.
The chaos within wants to do a dance
on white-noise, pink-noise, sine waves, and yelling
Surfing the maelstrom of inhuman sounds
arising from the neglected human.
So toying with resistors on bread-boards
(to create the sound of awakening)
the sonic terrorist works his magic,
a right-brain assault on one's falsest self.