You hid it with a bizarre smile,
Plastered with lipstick and fake eyebrows,
Long eyelashes, upon your canvas visage of a fake face.
You run to the record player, and quickly fumble about.
You press a lever, and it lifts the needle up,
Like a druggie, you try to find the vein,
The next track... not this one,
Where with a record is choice, you don't much like this one.
Click, it drops, and after static, it hits the track,
And like a druggie you relax a bit... music soothes, it controls a mood.
Nothing vibrates in your brain quite like analogue,
As you play about with mostly modern songs,
Music, hits the spot, you say, it's your version of those Iranian bongs the students like
- it alters your foulest of moods. It soothes.
You connect your headphones, and switch between (twenty;) channels
Radio, blasting into a cranium, leaving - reeking and seeking... red hearts and yellow emoticons.
And you listen, and shift in the middle of twenty thousand annoying songs...
What you are seeking I can't quite tell, but the music, like an addiction, cannot satisfy.
You place YouTube on AutoPlay, and to dark places, you, it takes, once again.
And you reach for your IPhone, it weighs less than 20 stone...
Like Tor, it browses your dark web,
It speaks of who you love, and who you'd pay to waylay or spay,
And from it, more music blasts, and a spell, casts.
And you stand, and break into an unbegotten dance.
It seems like you are having a blast, like a suicide bomber could never cast.
And the clock strikes, and shivers with effort,
Time moves backwards as you sing along to a certain song,
And you raise your flag well beyond your mast,
And Instagram your latest self portrait, via a poor man's Photoshop.
And certainly, you are wearing quite the crop top,
You turn on the beat, and feel everything is quite sweet.
And so I set my dangers on auto-correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others,
But they only ever lead to your darkest of webs,
And I fear this path leads to infinite recommendations,
And to songs that blast, and spells that cast, upon the tattered hope of any good man's mast,
SOS- now - SMS, I re-pen a redundant acronym- Save My Soul... I seek to say..
None of which I desire to follow.
Do you hear me?
If you see what I mean?
Perhaps if I uploaded it to Instagram?
But it's not quite my style.
And your most annoying songs have blasted for quite the while...
So I seek peace, with my curtains closed, my door locked,
And a book set in 1884, a century before the era we seek, everyday to once again meet, on empty streets,
And you lay down on your bed, upon another planet, in black and white,
And set about photographing every item you choose to eat.
And in some bizarre unthreading of fate, autoplay has us listening to that same foul beat.
For some reason, you think it's sweet.
To me it's not quite the same,
Music is not how I seek to speak.
And the futuristic novel I read, has me quite upbeat.
And yet, the night breeze, I sensed, it became a hurricane in the morning, my dream, in it as though truth itself, is to know that night breeze, as though in romance- to romance the mystery of the hidden truth. For I love the night breeze, which so few yet can sense.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
I set my dangers on auto correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others
Posted by Marc Evan Aupiais at 1:41 PM
Dad; Husband; Christian (Catholic); Irish. — News; Business; History; Civilizations; The Western World; Speech; Culture; Law. (Pronounced: Aw-Pea-Air.)
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