“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Your honour.
Play the evidence”
The sound of a projector whirrs
As wind in a snail shell.
TAKE ONE.
REPLAY.
“The defendant knew the man,
Had talked to him on train stations,
But kept it as hidden as a brief encounter.
He knew this man liked that band,
Not liked, loved,
And the defendant had a whole playlist to recommend and a whole compilation of
Critical readings on Post-Britpop to articulate.
However!
the defendant being
Slow and mollusc minded.
He kept his oyster shut.
SLOW THE FILM!...”
The whirring whizzes to ticking,
As nagging as potentially productive hours.
“Slowing the footage,
we can see
That his mouth even hesitantly gaped for a second.
Not one of his greatest hits was it?”
Ha,
I think,
No need to punish me.
I do that deed upon myself.
My pen scribbling, clicking,
Ticking,
Whirring,
In my head at night,
With conversations I never had.
When you overhear a conversation that you could join in or spot someone you could get along with, but nervousness stops you from talking to them or joining in. From when I spotted someone from my college at a train station, I knew that like me he was interested in music, but I never spoke to him.
I wasn't into Radiohead like he was, but I would still enjoy talking about them.
(Anyone reading this like Bowie?)
