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at this moment, right now,
as you read this
is a new beginning
in a series of new beginnings
that is constantly repeated
in a continuous cycle
and every moment beforehand
becomes a dream sequence
of non-existence and
wasted time
nothing comes back to haunt us
except the history of ourselves
we slaves to our decisions
prisoners to our internal form
anchored by trivialities
centered by nothing
broken records of regiment
to what we repeatedly do
everyday and continually
search for happiness
even if unhappiness
secures our bliss.
we are the everlasting breeders
to a succession of living corpses.
Jay M Sep 12
All are dancing slowly
This masquerade
A gala
Yet
All is in great discord
Among the orchestra
One is out of tune
Yet
None seem to care
To hear the broken melody
See the chip in the stone

Cover it up
With a little paint
None shall tell
Besides the meek little pup
Soon it shall faint
One shall yell
While the rest
Ring, ring, ring the bell
Dancing in discord
To the broken melody

Pulling out a flask
‘Neath the rows
Folk chatter and ask,
“Isn’t something off?”
While the other throws,
“Neigh!” then one does quaff

Shine a light
Alone the floor
Hold one tight
For one shall sing no more
Grasp it
So one may not fall
That she would not permit
Not a’tall

Sing, sober dream
Whisper your whims
Through a beam
On a limb
The lullaby
Child doth cry
Sing, sober dream
Sing, sing,
For ‘tall must end
One day.

- Jay M
September 12th, 2019
Invisible Aug 20
Like a melody
On repeat
I hear everything but you

A broken piece
You never need
Maybe I don't want to

A musical whim
One I can't sing
Tell me it's true

I want to know if you're worth it
Tell that you deserve it
Help me believe you

I really want to.
You know how a broken record repeats everything? In this case, I'm a broken record. I keep repeating my mistakes. Can't seem to get rid of them.
Nigdaw Jul 28
Removed from paper inner sleeve
shiny black disc
catching light, rainbows across the groove
carefully placed on turntable's
spinning platter
to keep finger marks at bay
spinning, 33 1/3
snap, crackle, pop
the needle takes flight
leading in to
the rumble of bass
crash of high hat
singer's lyrical weavings
a density of sound
the smell of vinyl
a whiff of aging cardboard sleeve
artwork fit for a gallery
Andromeda Mar 30
you loved me
like your favourite song
on your favourite side.
played over and over
again and again
repeat after repeat.
the cassette became worn
the vinyl became scratched
no needle or player could fix it.
the song distorted
taken out of proportion
but you blame it on the cassette.
you threw it out
like a broken toy
and purchased a new one.
but the song could never be the same
as the song played
on cassette side 1.
there's a letter I wrote you with no address
in a box beneath my bed
and this isn't a metaphor for the time I spent waiting for you
there's scattered words in my head
playing like a broken record
a collage of tired clichés
holding just enough truth to echo the memories of you
there's nails on my fingers bitten to the brim for every time your name's been in my mouth
and I've tried to wash it down
but something about the wiring in my brain
has fooled me into believing my excess of love
will make up for your lack there of
am just fantasising about you, your sweet body, those ***** sweet kisses. The heart warming sensual moans as our bodies rock, and I slide into that sweet honeypot.

I can still feel the tremors of pleasure as I go deeper and deeper into you. I Love the smell our sticky bodies as we wash each other with our body juices.

My bedroom mistress, I yearn to learn more from your wealth of the act. You are an artist and I wish to be your apprentice. Teach me, let me do the practicals. Grade me, but let me have retakes.

Let me scoop the honey,
let me lick every drop,
Let me get drunk,
Allow me to savour the life dregs,

Let my fingers play the fiddle,
Let me sing and waltz to the rhythm,
Let me strike the notes in crescendo,
Allow me to drown in the melody.

Our song will have no words,
The music will not be meant for more than a pair of ears.
In our studio of five by six,
We will edit and launch our album,
And on our memory wall it will hang,
As the best platinum album of 2019.
Longings,
Psychosa Mar 6
I never knew
you thought of
me
as beautiful.

Til the night you played me
your scratched record.

It skipped
it was filled with d is sona nce
It had no consistency
but its consistency of cacophonies.

Others would have
thrown the record away,
unable to bear its e
rra
tic ways.
Others would have said it's Broken.
Unfixable.
A disaster.
Too much.

;

But you ,
you weren't like the others.
You did not want to throw away the scratched record;
you did not even want to take the scratched record to a repair shop,
for you ,
you somehow seemed to find
a harmony in the scratched record.

So you closed your eyes to the endless loop of the scratched record
and said It was the most beautiful song you've ever heard

Because to you,
The most beautiful
are the most broken.
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