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Building Blocks
Walk, on Berwick Street, wafting
in smoky trench coat, cuban
heels striking sparks on mottled
tarmacadam: hipster flesh melted in
soot and diesel, like the
promise of an afterlife, carbolic
fallacy of love and prayer,
graffiti on the velvet bishop,
desecration of desert font photograph.
Continue, fingers scraping latex surfaces,
glass pick-guards, crumble brick: the
hunt for the carbon groove,
elusive microtonal zeroes, graphic psycho-analysis
on binary stave; these are
the butchered mahogany slabs, lounging
in minds of art-house denizens,
primary and platonic, a contradiction
in terms, a futile nothingness.
Fall, sporadically, in and out
of record stores: Bowness, Bozulich,
Merzbow, mangled synth, snapped string
buskings, chromium falsetto: neon soundtrack
to soho wanderings, while paper
bags escape past the market,
sepia tumbleweed longing for recognition,
pinstriped analogue rectangles, slaughtered in
the search for modern jive.
Die, one thousand deaths, (Godspeed's
lonely suicides), rain bank notes
down gutters, fulfil the ancient
prophesies, use the wrong end
of the telescope and turn
right, heading for the end
of the line, 78 rpm,
charge at turbo pasts that
remain encased in London pavement.
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