Upon discovering my mother’s vinyls


Peculiar library of artefact, dust

Which invites an affected walking

Of ones fingers over and along

The layers and layers of song.


I tease out one fine segment, like

An After Eight, still in its wrapper,

Yet later still. I tease the wonder out

And it emerges, a monochrome


Face of Bowie, leant in, circumspect;

Until the entire artifice is out,

Held at arm’s length like a curio,

Until I decide how best to get at it.


Another teasing-out: this time, the disc

Of actual delay and liquorice,

Lifted like a good quotation from

Its obsolescent source. At last,


The award: the ancient dangerous discus

Cuts the fingertips which keep it at the edge,

And the thrill is there. I discovered it at last;

And as a sacrifice – whether of it or I –


It is placed in its intricate position

And, with the ease of an assassin,

I lower the arms, dip the thirsty needle

Into the warped flesh, the rings of feeling.


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