What unknowable rhythms compel the dervish? What sacred fugues imperceptible? What hellwind choruses are wrought upon those whirling talons, stoke the smouldering flare that he cradles between sawn-off glovetips, some semaphore to his celestial brethren?
What fleeting tyrannies of human sense can one impose on this son of Chaos, this otherworldly conductor of downtown crescendo? Eyes under the leprous bandanna? Nose behind the double band-aid, bifurcated tongue behind maniacal shards of a grin? Some antediluvian childhood when bedroom mirrors once framed these esoteric contortions?
And yet he spins, these questions unanswered, scuppered already upon the tempests of our own creation.