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Madison Sep 2018
Still, without the touch of the needle

The silent record sits in wait.

Line after line of etched in melody

Worn, -- even abused

Scarred and scraped

A scratch here

Some dust there

Replayed, again and again

Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin

Only to be abandoned on the turntable

Where it once served its purpose.

Neglected, unused

The silent record stays still

Hoping to one day turn again.
For a workshop exercise on imagism, in which I had to create a 'portrait' of an object. I picked a record, of course.
Madelynn Nieves Aug 2018
Overwhelming heat
Stuck to the linoleum floor
Listening to vinyl
Keeping one eye on the door
Not knowing what will happen next
It was clear to me
That you were not like all the rest
Moving in slowly
As to not scare you away
Subtle stares
Magic sent through pages
Writing each other notes
To ensure this isn’t just another hoax
Pouring out our souls
Discussing the future and our goals
We begin to coast
Vibing endlessly
We lose track of time
And before I know it
I begin to rhyme
Singing of you in every line
Stereo Joy Jul 2018
It is because of you that I am fully attentive
Soundwaves that wash over me from start to end
Music, my only friend

Now, we ride the waves of wifi to get what we need
But our gaze upon an artist is lost
Once our playlists consist of only a few of their songs
Handpicked amongst others, so our entertainment isn't lost

I understand the desire of variety
But I value the intimacy of a record I can hold
Knowing that for a while, it's just me and this music alone
A Simillacrum Jun 2018
Human existence
Is a story
Accident or miracle?
An accident, for sure,
But could it not be both?
We
Are alive
And so am
I
Something from nothing,
Is that not miraculous?
People talk a lot
About Human nature
As if We are The Stone
When We are The Mountain
Of The Earth and Our
Image in The Lake
Reveals The Truth of Gods
Our Dominion is the
Consciousness We give away
To get back when We
Know
So for sure
It does not
Work
Not at all like that
I will explain it
All for my child
Under the light of day
Make no mistake
We have Made this place
Where
Currency determines
Which of Us will ascend
And it has been
For me all my life
That's when I look at you
And see you for the first time
A piece of The Soul
Welcomed to an entrance
Among Our every new
Where Our Elders sit
In circles of no clarity
Selling songs, selling food,
Selling news, selling views,
Selling Us modes of Life
Pandered to preselected groups
Test and Market approved
And Selling it as soon as through
Our parents who Would
Paper Our deepest wombs
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. . .

. . .

LOADING FILE. . .

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. . .
EricM Mar 2018
Black tar on
A silver platter
Diamond in the groove
Revolutions of sound
And vibrations
Long since faded out

Although I've heard
The explanation
I will never
Understand it
Through the hiss and static
Out pours a little magic

Alternatively,
Through a convoluted
Series of wires
I can acquire
A digitized
Approximation
Of something that
Used to be music

And my brain can
Hardly tell the difference

I don't know
If it's a matter of trust
Or understanding
But I think I
Prefer the magic
To this technological
Pageant
jess Feb 2018
the sound between the music is comforting to me,
it's almost like a void -
but a happy one.
it gives you a slight moment of euphoria,
time to think about, time.
time advancing.
time.
it lasts long enough for you to think.
the static is the anticipation of,
"whats next?"
a soft presence.
it appears for only a moment,
time sails on.
-j.p.
idk what this is but it was in my notes with the prompt of "Write about a record player"
Demy Molentor Sep 2017
They take their shots on film.
They dance  to the vinyl plates.
They write with old pens.
They keep it real through decades.

You know, someday, the lights go out for good.
They will know what to do.
But we depend on energy too much.
What's then we are to do.

Besides, they touch the music, smell the lights.
But we have only ones and zeros.
They keep real, we make it fake, so
I wonder who're the real weirdos.
Manipulated the masses
through media.
Clear the air
for an explosion of silence
before the first acoustics
pierce through the ears
to the spongy minds
of the adolescence.
Close your eyes and
imagine the edited sounds
of the juxtaposition,
clashing the rhythms and melodies
mixed with the reprised chorus of
repugnant magnitude,
meaningless crybaby lyrics
and off-key utterance
with agonizing commercialism.
Corporate record companies
hide behind thick black velvet curtains
and produce highly profitable garbage,
so bad that it sounds like a
dead baby being slapped
against an untuned violin.
Pulling the strings on
radio stations like marionettes
to spread these undesirable
golden oldies like wildfire.
Using and abusing music television
to overplay videos repeatedly
until it nauseates your innards.
These puppet masters reel
the uneducated into the
blackest tar pits and capture
their gray matter for eternity
to what they believe to be
is acceptable music.
Unknowledgeable and unaware
of anything else in existence.
In a world that makes haste,
we don't take the time anymore
to appreciate what we listen to
that actually fulfills and pleases
our soul, body and mind.
Generation after generation
declining into the sludge and slop
of objectifying and degrading compositions.

Record stores hold sanctuary.

Providing hidden gems and treasures
for explorations.
Rummaging through the LPs and EPs
and scrutiny of 45s and 7 inches
to find the pearl in the oyster
concealed under piles of
flotsam and jetsam,
thrift store throwaways.
Music lovers are like
archaeologists and scuba divers
rediscovering obscure rarities
in old crates of the deepest,
darkest depths of
mildew basement cellars.
One moment before the next,
in the highest fidelity
as the needle drops on the licorice pizza
and off the twang comes
the lovely wax statics
of the most ******* reverberations.
All the little hairs stand upright
and tingle the back of your neck
and arms as the notes
flow off your fingertips
and you fall into a
complete state of euphoria,
like a Buddhist that's reached
Nirvana.
Gritty Maestros of the underworld
construct celestial symphonies,
so soothing they can tame
the wildest beasts and
orchestrate the most
diabolical spazz noid cacophonies
as the high frequencies skirmish
through cracked speakers.
Music can summon the demons
inside you while reaching
therapeutic climaxes
simultaneously.
JR Rhine Feb 2017
You wouldn’t let my feet touch ground
until side A died out
and the pirouette ceased.

We laid there in our Analog Atlantis
staring beyond the ceiling
letting the soundscape crash over us
and cascade into auricular orifices.

Our bodies lifted from the mattress,
floating up and up—
past the ceiling, past the trees,
past the planes and clouds,
past the stars and planets—

into the ether we fantasize about
in our synchronized dreams.

Til the sound waves receded,
and our bodies washed up along the shore,
our contours molding into impressionable sand,
turning our gaze to one another—

the needle lifts from the wax
and returns to rest,
the platter ceases its cycle,
the speakers die—

and instead of feet touching ground,
I flipped over to side B.
aylin Oct 2016
she liked listening to records
because they reminded her
that old things are still good
but she hasn't played one since
she last saw you
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