Dust
collects on the black grooved discs,
stored
in blokeish order
of
genre, date and playability.
Each
is a memory,
maybe:
history
consigned to loft space.
Life no longer measured
by
revolution's turning circles.
When
told you'd swapped Led
Zeppelin 4
to
get the Anti
Nowhere League,
somehow
I knew we'd rub along.
In
our heads still flailing
pogo limbs explore B-sides,
ignore
the limits of extended play.
As
background noise accumulates,
alter
egos nurse
baseless crushes.
Click,
pop, crackle and hiss:
yearning
and protest jump at the scratches.
We
trade arcane detail of line-ups
and
releases: I'll see your Damned,
raise you Desperate
Bicycles.
No
more stacking singles on Dansettes then,
nor
littered ransom note
of
picture sleeves on bedroom floors.
Cut-off
corners once were ex-chart bargains,
are
now forgotten clues.
As
time runs out, a needle rides
its
crowded spiral to the heart.
We've
reached the point when ears turn back,
fill
their own future in.
What went before
outstrips notes yet to hear.
vi.2011
[So, foist obscure compilation CDs onto friends & they'll pay you
back in kind...]
