There is a part of me that knows you'll always be my favorite song,
But there's a part of me that knows that I'll always remain a record player
While you transform and reform and expand and compress
And now you've become a ****** mp3.
While music is a universal language, our mediums have changed.
So my old fashioned needle and your new fangled  encoding do not coincide.
But you know what, you know something? That's fine.

My first life lasted long enough
A wife I loved and children real stuff
The war changed everything
Family dead except for my son
where was he when we won?
Forget it all

My second life a depressed teen
Counselors fail to make me clean
Phonographs and tapes
The start of my new life
Why do I keep thinking of my wife?
Forget it all

Third life wasn't strong
Discrimination with my hair long
Women disguises aren't the best in 1900's
This goes with my fourth and fifth
I really wish this was a myth
Forget it all

Sixth was really fun
Did some drugs and went to clubs
Became a show host
They all found out
They started to shout
Forget it all

Aute Lun didn't go to heaven
Nothing phased number seven
His life did not last

Number eight was burned to the steak
That hurt I needed a break

Poor sweet number nine
His bills made him commit
Suicide

Ten and Eleven
Nearly became convicted felons
But they got too sick to even try
Forget it all
All these lives
Do they matter?
Just forget...

Number 12 was one of the longest
A guy by the name of Alex Coneales
I was finally myself again
I made a friend or two
They help me through
They never know

Wilson Maxwell a friend with laughs
He found my tapes, my phonographs
We exchange our secrets
He says he'll help me no matter what
He knows too much so I keep shut
I'M SCARED
FORGET IT ALL

My absolute destiny is to skull **** the **** out of life
To blast open the empty cleavage
To shatter all the deceptive phonographs
Those that you now consider “convenient modes of transportation”

Every dawn I will howl into your vibrating monotones
Your Dutch rambling will be reduced to ashes
Alone in a ***** hostel

You will be shocked by the sight of a desecrated ******
The fish scales still burning
Left in their natural preservatives

The lowest of all the adorned creatures
Is he who succumbs to mediocrity
An ordinary existence is worse then a wasted *** receptacle
If they cant see the truce in a setting sunlight

It is a sin to deteriorate comfortably
Making circles with the tracks of your laymen’s truck
of waking up happy with your plastic name tags
carved to resemble an ignorant life scrap

This **** disgusts me
It is the skull ******* that define a generation
Grab your sword a
and plunge deep into the night

A laudable combination of weapons of mass destruction
and drunkards
This is one less moment you spend being ordinary

The drunk one's
always sunken
they say; undone
by ether. Either
crashed by
primordial
Phonographs;

         OR

passed by my
own next doors
Smack addict
acting like a
CIA Agent. Yes,
an impatient
poisoned partner
under here; for sure.

there’s a streetlamp on an avenue,

it throws out tiny galaxies of light.

they falter as they reach the outer layers of the cobblestone highway.

the light dances in a soft ballet with the shadows -

a plié that picks the innocence out of allies,

a pirouette that smiles at your doorway.

you might be slumped behind it

pretending the rugged wood is everyone it isn’t.

i hope you are.

if you are slumped behind that doorway,

with the light and dark dancing to a thousand phonographs,

i might be able to imagine you as someone who didn’t need a door.

someone who could take a door and see it as a door;

not a mother,

or a dog,

or a soundtrack,

or a piece of set.

i could imagine that you haven’t become a dramaturge,

that instead you see every movement and static implication

as crushingly real.

i would be able to watch reality wring your chest,

grind at your ribcage,

and that would hurt less -

watching you be torn apart and ground to dust

at the same time

by a reality that hates us both.

it would be the tiniest bit better,

because i can help you fight anything.

i can sand beside you and at least allow my remains to become dust as yours will

and we can blow down the streets together

and be stuck in the cracks together

but i won’t help you fight yourself.

if you hate yourself, i have to let you do it alone

land lines, phonographs, telex, and hatracks
cassettes, telegraph, tape drives and 8 tracks,
pagers, zip drives, typewriters and ****,
floppy discs, slide projectors, and mainframes,

boom boxes, slide rulers, pagers and portable tv,
laser disks, cartridges, matrix printers and CRT
pdas, walkman, fax machines and reel-to-reel
and you now tell me, my love, your love is real

We'll hang up our cowls & capes

In the thick of the collapsed ruins

Cranking one last tune on expired phonographs

Groaning as osteofluorosis plays his merry tune again

Still, gazing with the vast emptiness of long-lost eyes,

As a long lost chord haunts these halls again, we mutter :

"I can hear it now, like I heard it then."

You only see it now in photographs
and hear it on old phonographs,
how things were,

I was there in how things were
and they weren't like that at all,

they're making halcyon out of silicon
trying to sell you images that never
existed,
and they call them salad days,
they were only salad days because
nobody could afford meat.

you'll only be fooled if you want to be
because like me
you saw
how things were
first hand.