At last, she yielded up her record, which,
Scratched, glossed upon its deck, days thick.
Oh, matted with its bakelite, the slick
Defections of glib music spin to live.
Lies smoke the words of these ‘stereo-images‘.
My living eye must hanker after sound-
With ponytails colliding with the moon,
I lift my heady head against true noise
And bask in torpor as rock-sounds display
The quietus of a classroom, punk-sprayed.
With every single speaker, darkness flows
Down the drains of melodies and crows
‘Your candour thus infers a classic tune
Whence gladness springs its singing from
Out the fields; and tapes will prize rooms’
From contractions rolling to a red drum,
Simply by feeling old and out of date,
Girls must wash their feet inside a pop-state
Of self-loathing; thence this white-room lays
The censors of an album, wide and loud.
Washing-lines in towns define cries
And music must confer with bubble-wrapped
Compact-discs that scheme the snapped.
Ah, we whisk aside the jazz of sense
And drive the blemished towers of hell-sent
Lyrics, making meagre passions mourn
The sea-shelves of an oven-heated song.
In short, from eye to eye, pink dance will send
Pennies from the skies of sensual croons.
These lakes of sinning dancing thrash
And smaller clearings break their livid tunes.
This schizophrenic tale is now unveiled,
Bricked in the boiling with dream-key ‘2-2.’
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org.
