Just following mind-grooves,
hunting the smell of vinyl
and laminated covers,
no music available
only an inaudible sense
of myself
whistling aimlessly
through collections -
recollections,
the reissued
fade-outs of the faded.
Nothing too much to bear
between ear to ear,
only the well-worn, well scratched,
revolutions of the heart - its pulse
a rhythmic clicking of dry fingers
to the beat
of long muted tunes.
Categories:
reissued, poetry,
Form: Free verse