1.

In alleyways and docklands I wander
aimlessly with purpose as reels whir
forward, back, reverse, and repeat.

I walk endlessly for miles;
day to night and back again,
listening to a tape replete
with rhythms racking my mind.

2.

In coffee shops and
book shops and music
halls and taverns my
ears hear not the shrill
screeches and squeals of
my fellow man but

Analogue
sounds of an
instrumental played

By one in
some sort of
ethereal plane,

A place that
seems both
familiar and strange;

I shall search
for this place
the rest of my days.

3.

My hair, longer now, falls free
in front of my sunglasses
to ensure my vision is
doubly impaired.

My jacket whips in the storm,
as does my open striped shirt,
but my cravat holds back the
chill in the air.

I’ve felt far too much by now
to make some futile attempt
to hold back the wild winds or
compose myself.

4.

The melodies slow down.
Notes I don’t recognise.
The reels come to a stop;
the batteries have died.

The rhythms flee my mind.
At long last I’m released.
My walk’s now at its end;
must have something to eat.