#records
I raced to the summit
to get close to the dome
and it was a mirror
lined with serpents
on flowers
that I could have put there
myself
but didn’t
because I was busy
putting everything else:
the evening chair,
next to the scratchy needle,
the bumpy cuts,
the warm hiss
of a well worn life.
Oh!
And the handshake
of sheer
*******
will power.
And the mirror
showed me a face
eventually.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 3:57 AM UTC
The night shift never ended—
I paid in late hours, early hours,
a currency of borrowed time.
Some souls lingered for a chapter,
others just a line, then faded,
proving every start contains an end,
and every end, a ghost of a beginning.
Every encounter taking some and leaving other things behind
I learned to hold loosely,
unlearned the fear of empty spaces,
relearned the weight of my own footsteps.
Syllables of tears for exits missed,
crammed formulas for doors I needed—
a brutal, necessary algebra.
In the year’s fading light, the mirror
holds a stranger’s patient eyes.
Are you the design?
Are you the desire?
She offers no reply, just watches
as I turn from the glass.
This is the pulse. The forward motion.
I will walk for her,
this unfinished self, until the path
and the woman are the same.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 7:28 PM UTC
Are We Just a Repeating Record?
We are the timeless tales of the turntable, romantic vinyls, a treasure to collect, just like our stories and memories along the cycle of life.
Vinyl romance, a timeless aura of grace, Caressing speakers, warming hearts, a gentle kiss upon the face.
Smokey, sultry sounds of yesteryear. History, a well-played record, always repeating itself. We all find our pace and our journey, just like the three speeds on a turntable.
The old charm and elegance of a vintage Hollywood star, danced by a suave gent, a wisp of cigar smoke in the air. Velvet curtains, a cabaret haze, with strong, classic cocktails.
So are we all just a repeating record, getting older with each rotation? We chase the same basic things— love, work, a roof. Politics tries to change but always repeats itself. Fashion and trends go full circle.
The world is round, so why is life so circular?
Perhaps because we are the timeless tales of the turntable, romantic vinyls, a treasure to collect, just like our stories and memories along the cycle of life.
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 12:39 PM UTC
I like music?
Writing is good too.
But music is the best,
I like listening to the records,
As they spin.
Art is nice too,
I like to paint.
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 10:32 AM UTC
I'm gonna get me a record player,
So I can throw on jazz vinyls,
Classical symphonies, modernistic musics, raptastic tracks-ish.
So I can hear those low notes blow,
Those high notes reach, whistle, then pop,
So I can listen to all 'em tunes,
That got me thinking about you non-stop.
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
I write music in the record store,
I'll use their piano to pen the tune.
They won't find me,
I'm good at hiding,
So someday my record will be sold there.
We kiss in the record store,
To the sound of men making music.
They won't find us,
We're good at quiet love,
So someday we'll kiss to the men playing my record.
Feb 20, 2025
Feb 20, 2025 at 10:22 PM UTC
If there are wonders of worlds unknown it wouldn’t be found in this missive. All ingenuity and innovation of tenders and obscure precarious peasants in town are forgotten. A tailor-made war machine ingenious to no purpose, but disassembling of pragmatic purpose driven people by torts in similitude to lay-flat bacon with no flavor. Style was not the first itinerary as well, as reason and intellection more likely found slung out a window in the dark grey burdensome MOCO morning clouds to dry than the vestige of its unrecognizable token. At the day of the making of the great ingenious monstrosity of marvel the crown and the crowd were all in awe, awhile the people gathered in the halls giving pittance and lamenting what they saw. They were counted with their many items that they made not similar to the machine that they stood in obeisance for.
October 28th broke darkness to a drab MOCO morning as brilliant light gives way to long pale grey cloudy skies of foreboding obstruction. What has come to pass fills the streets with unfriendly noises. Obnoxious street sounds of trucks and rude commuters in the morning melting *** of the county seat steered a drab venture for the driven. For some, the events of the day couldn’t come too soon. A sober male erected himself in an uncomfortable bed, eyes raptured into a day fore lorn by prophets of paisley drapes and trinkets once despised. Little left to vacillate upon he strikes his life for the fare he will need for the day without a meal and those owed are far greater than he can afford to pay. He deserves far worse. He makes his early drink in one thousand ways and questions the preliminaries that compulsory routine has degraded to utilitarianism as he is burdened by health of the sort the homeless are afflicted.
Sitting undisturbed, busy rifling through an ordinance of papers, the judge peered out over his bench checking occasionally to appear meticulous and still aware of off-guard court officers and clerks. It’s a wonder how influential the long satin Khaki painted walls aligned with disheveled faces of the father’s of the 9th District were in forming his disposition. It might not be obvious by the look of his sparse schlocky beard or furry eyebrows but, his portrait was as predestined as the grain on the gurney he rode in on. A paladin in white, a fury fine form, ready to leave his post modern imprint in-line with the greats. This wasn’t what he loved to do; this was what he was born for.
The tight soldier-course front-line of blue and teal is disrupted by our pocky pitched Siren dousing more among the brown of cross wood than the grain that red oak can display. Cordial banter in the echoes of the hall were far off despite the close good mornings and whimsical felicitations exchanged wittily without regard to fairness. Framed words are hard to come by in the sentence seat of the unjust. The fake philanthropic mating calls our Siren sounds before the wind are so grotesque in full sight they are only left for a sailors burial song or dirges in the dark by wearisome travelers and laborers neglecting the fear of their next day as they did the day before. Singing is a requirement in the back minds of the proud. of the proud.
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
I'm talking about a record label that was founded a long time ago.
It was founded in the early seventies and the label was called RSO.
They were once a very successful corporation.
RSO stood for 'Robert Stigwood Organization'.
When it came to stars like Andy Gibb and Eric Clapton, RSO managed their careers.
RSO was founded in 1973 and sadly, the record label ended after just ten years.
They also managed the careers of Yvonne Elliman and the Bee Gees.
RSO manufactured records about 'The Empire Strikes Back' and 'Return Of The Jedi' before dissolving in 1983.
In 1980, the Bee Gees slapped RSO with a two hundred million lawsuit.
There was a settlement for an undisclosed amount that ended the dispute.
In 1983, many people hated to see them go.
The world is a better place because of RSO.
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC
The whole essence of songs
Are the engravings of notes on time
So why is it that i
Draw lopsided eyes
When 60 years ago
Come blasting through to ears anew
I love the hollow echoes
Of studio feedback in records
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 8:29 AM UTC
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.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
shaved my head again last night,
watched empire records and saw deb and shaved my head again last night.
ate spaghetti, my best friend got into college
my best friend got into college and we ate spaghetti and shaved my head again
we shaved my head again cause we watched empire records and i saw deb and i saw deb shave her head and i thought that looks awesome
so we ate spaghetti
and she got into college,
she’s already in college but she got into a different college
so i made her spaghetti and we watched empire records
and we watched empire records
and ate spaghetti
and she shaved my head cause we watched empire records
and now she’s going to college
a different college
she’s already in college
she’s going to a different college
i didn’t text that dude
i didn’t text that dude, and he didnt text me
i saw his girlfriend on instagram
his girlfriend posted on instagram and i saw it
a picture of that dude
i was maybe going to text him
i was maybe
going to text him
but then i saw his girlfriend
on instagram i saw his girlfriend
his girlfriend posted on instagram
a picture of that dude
so i didn’t text that dude
cause i saw his girlfriend
i woke up and my cats were on me and my arm was asleep
my arm was asleep
my arm was asleep cause my cats were on me
my cats, both of them,
two of them, my cats
were on it, one of them, one of my arms,
both of my cats
both of my cats were on one of my arms
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
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
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
there's a *** of water on the radiator
steaming up the windows
in my tiny bedroom -
the one in brooklyn -
where i was too poor to live in a place with a bedroom door
he's here, and he says he doesn't mind the curtain
there's anonymity in city life,
an ease to being completely alone
while surrounded by people
flush,
with the chill from outside
and the thought -
just the thought -
of his hands on my skin
his skin on my skin
simon and garfunkle on his old record player
sounds of new york
two people,
one bottle of whiskey
how strange to be with someone,
who can make you feel so alone
touch me, please
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
Boy George sang of Karma
Flock of Seagulls, Ran away
The Stones, old and wrinkled
Night Ranger still, tours, and plays
Queen, no longer Mercury
ELO's skies, no longer Blue
Eagles, no more, Lying Eyes
The Who, just Who, are You?
Styx, no longer Paradise
REO have lost, the Key
Time slays, old musicians
as music now, is free
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
i got into my car hurriedly
Wednesday, Thursday, saturday
(i chose to walk on friday)
so it wasn't until i had to wait out the rain in my car
sunday, 12 pm
that i looked over,
fully immersed in the scent of your favorite perfume
half expecting you to materialize from the cloud of fragrance occupying the passenger's side
and in my haste from the days previous,
i wasn't yet aware of the tiny pin you left in your place
before dashing out into the city streets
a bobby pin
that must have escaped the locks that touched your skin
it made mine crawl
to think of an object blessed enough
from the graces of an atheist's god
to be given the opportunity
to touch a being so holy
and there i sat
in a parked car,
cursing everything that made me into the awkward, 5 ft. 8
man i am
longing to be close enough to her
so that i might
smell the scent of lavender and honey
that lingered from her embrace
but instead,
i am the stalky man who can not seem to say goodbye
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
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
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
Kiss me good-bye until the thunder stops clapping,
until the moon starts glowing, until we all crawl
back to the fireplace, where the logs are burning
and the kids are laughing. Take me to the underground,
to a place I’ve never heard about.
Make me forget how I’ve hurt you.
Ask me questions, even if I can’t give you
all the answers.
Please accept my excuses, even if they’re useless.
Drink coffee with me, beneath the terrace,
as the smokers vape, and the drinkers guzzle.
Tell me what you love about the sunshine
that peeks under the rainclouds.
And tell me to stop,
if I’m talking too much.
Because I can listen to you speak,
on this cassette tape, over and over.
Press play.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
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
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
There are still
people in the
World
With
Clean eyes
The people
Who have
A pleasant
Profile
Their pure
Scent is
Another simile
For goodness
I've lost my
Bronze shiny
Anchor
Therefore
Anaforas in
Before spring
Blossoms do
Afloat
Me and you
Are a rolling
Records
Cosily unbound
Wraped around
The ancient aquamarine
Amphoras
As the numinous, dire
Paragraphs of our lifes
Know also of the succulent
Sweetness. Inspiration.
And everything.
I am. You.
Omnipresent
We collide with marvels.
Rainbowy bubble plops.
The world is back again.
Trickeling over tenderly
Undulated membranes.
Also the eyelid seas.
United in the ephemeral,
Ever changing images.
Desire and goodness.
The day and those nights.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
The kid could throw, he really could throw
Scouts were watching back in high school
Arm like a rocket and vision like an owl
Smart too, had all the tools
He could pick apart a defense
He just knew what he could do
But he could throw, the kid could throw
He wasn't coached, the kid just knew
He was fourteen when first spotted
Junior ball in Eastern Michigan
Throwing footballs, Setting records,
Just to break them all again
His mind was agile like his feet
He just knew how plays should go
He was gonna knock them dead in college
He was a sure thing for the show
He made the coaches look amazing
They never, ever called a play
He'd run the team alone while playing
He knew just what he had to say
Three perfect years in highschool
Undefeated every year
State champions...why naturally
The kid just had no fear
He was a leader with that football
He was a man amongst the boys
He sure could pick apart a defense
He broke 'em up like little toys
In third year scouts were knocking
Every college from the East
Full rides without a question
The schools all wanted this young beast
He settled on a team with promise
He knew he could help them win it all
The scouts and coaches stood in awe as
The **** kid could throw that ball
He kept his marks up to the level
That he needed to stay around
He wrote up plays instead of homework
Some in the air, some on the ground
The kid could throw the ****** football
The NFL already knew
He'd already broken most school records
The scouts just knew what he could do
It took two years to make a bowl game
On TV beneath the lights
The country knew of the boy wonder
And they would see it Sunday night
The one thing without question
Was the rocket they called his arm
The coaches built a line around him
They would keep him safe from harm
In third year he decided
He was turning pro that year
The pro scouts all knew of him
The price to get him would be dear
Deals were made through out the summer
Teams were phoning every day
The school was upset he was leaving
The league knew he was set to play
Two first round picks and a reciever
Went to Detroit for his rights
The Lions had the chance to grab him
But the Texans had him in their sights
The Texans proudly took him
He was gonna lead them all the way
The way that this kid threw a football
In Texas they sang "Happy Day"
Our father who are't in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
We lay this boy to rest before us
Before he even played a game
A celebration in a men's club
The boy had come so ****** far
When shots were fired in the crowd there
Two gunmen drove by in a car
He had the world in his possession
Man the kid could throw, really throw
But, fate had chose a different story
How good he was we'll never know
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
Breaking things is vandalism,
And vandals deserve a 6×9×12 cell,
But what of sportspersons?
They keep breaking records,
Mostly someone else's records,
And sometimes their own.
Shouldn't they be jailed?
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC