My immortal record player Technics SL D303 entrench's
something  recently acquired
possessing physical  music.
LP covers, with track listings
printed as intended,
to be read,
one records' perfection;
Jackie Lomax's début
got me  into his Three album
thanks again E bay.

The saffron days slip beneath the eaves of our garden shed.
A bugle variegates past feelings
but do we necessarily have to linger,
when the forbidden fruit offered
tastes that sweeter,
innocence pauses as an
incongruous sound.
The frosted morning roof shimmers
to no avail,
gilded promises warm
the willingness newly acquired.

The city plays cat and mouse
and pefects the fear.
Jaggered lights dazzle
the victim
and nautical terms are resurrected as shanking.
Hospitals in an ode to Johannesburg's ingenuity
repair the injurious knife wounds
caused not by weekend lighter fuel
but a postcode lottery
undone only by the postman.

He used to play with his train set
like a train conductor in his own private domain,
the standard gauge his only knowledge,
little realising  the arterial flow
of his future days.
the logistics of money flow
the stop start of motivation
the despondency of the heart.

Where silence weaves shrouds
avarice is left in the cold,
beyond the trees and stone walls
we have finally left the crowds.
The sleeping mist lounges,
taking in our thoughts
and not even cloth ears himself
can ignore the enchantment already
whispering our vows

Time as the healer,
this vinyl waxes merrily
how could we not  steal moments listening?
the record plays like a lost friend -
cascading grooves gives choice,
eye contact breaks the reticence
enthralled with our knowledge
enthral to the Elektra.

I'm off to see Jenny
she's keeping well,
just worried about her bunion
but she's a brave lass.
The way she cares for one and all
and carries her mascara,
with dreams of being a brunette.
not forgetting her penchant for wearing worn designer shoes -
she insists on taking to Bournemoth despite
stubbing her toe nails,
to no ones avail.