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.