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.

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.

Vinyl Chloride

I will never believe
in you again,
There is harm in
trusting a delusive
person like you;
Your damage replays,
others can see the
debris from your mistakes;
if only I were made of bricks,
then maybe, you
wouldn't weigh as much,
but because I'm
not made of bricks,
I'm vulnerable,*
starring tired flesh
and equally tired heart.

"Who would love such a
toxic conundrum?"
I whispered in the early
hours of my existence,
starting as a lukewarm
substance,
gazing into my pristine heart,
my empty core.

Then the fate of life saw to it;
to stain my skin and give
my emptiness a name;
Hurt,
no.
Ignition, match,
or maybe their hands.

I can't tell when those things
had a distinct identity
and didn't just seem to be
my heart twisting and
my core splitting,
soaked in chemicals,
all mixing.

There are cigarette lighters
everywhere you turn,
they look like brown eyes,
rough hands and vinyl collectors.
But I realize I am something
to be inhaled;
choose dying over pleasure,
give me your utmost devotion,
touch me as I burn.

A platter of black plastic
Spinning circles at a speed
That fill the air with music
The inspiration that I need

I close my eyes and listen
To every hiss and pop
I keep the arm retracted
So the music doesn't stop

The little worn out player
With the sweet distorted sound
Takes me back to being younger
It's where memories are found

It's magic made of plastic
Spinning out musical streams
That box that pops and crackles
And fills my vinyl dreams

if my mother would
have told me
that happiness was
equivalent to the
fragility of a vinyl

…. I would have
threw my happiness
back in her face.

-DDF

Saturday night sets in
as a $1 Roy Hamilton's Greatest Hits record
emits soft vocals and
mellow horns
from my speakers.
The intermittent
crackling and popping
scratches against my insides
as I strain to think of
anything and everything
but you.
The warm melodies are reminiscent
of the warm summer nights when
we first began to share time
and hidden parts of ourselves,
drifting into a rhythm that
swung me one-two-three,
waltzing into a haze of unexpected
love.
Little did I know the romantic waltz
would drastically switch tempo,
up and pounding,
beating behind my eyes and against my skull
as I heard the sounds of you
scurrying toward the
nearest exit, tangoing away from me,
and snatching my heart along
with you.
And in came the sound of blues,
slow, sultry, and so full of a longing
for he who lead me
in a dance I had thought
would never end.

'What shall we talk about today?'

Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
    block chords, then
          swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.

Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
                now?
Syncopation.
My  
      beat
against your
                beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.

Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
            syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?

Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
                                             unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
                                              chattering.
1,
     2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.

Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
     fading out.

'Let's do it, let's fall in-"

I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
        don't
don't.

I can't cook but I think
I can make  
                   instant jazz.
And you,
        and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
                                               wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?

But jazz has always been unpredictable.

'What shall we talk about now?'