concerning daniel johnston (an old attempt at a pantoum)

when you are low the world sings in a different tone:
everything shifts more slowly, like an old dog in the sun.
drainpipes buzz with shit and water. a kind of disquieting moan
shoots through people like the bullet from a jaded gun.

everything shifts more slowly, like an old dog in the sun
lying down to die in the yard. music, like some sort of nasal drone,
shoots through people like the bullet from a jaded gun.
people’s faces fade to the colour of desert-bleached stone.

lying down to die in the yard, music, like some sort of nasal drone,
and humming grotesquely, splays out like the drab habit of a nun.
people’s faces fade to the colour of desert-bleached stone,
and then they bawl as if the universe had only this moment begun.

humming grotesquely, splayed out like the drab habit of a nun,
the sky cuts down deep to the white flashes of bone
and then it bawls as if the universe had only this moment begun.
at the back of my throat, the tap water is as sickly as knockoff cologne.

the sky cuts down deep to the white flashes of bone
drainpipes buzz with shit and water. a kind of disquieting moan
at the back of my throat. the tap water is as sickly as knockoff cologne.
when you are low the world sings in a different tone.