The Long Player
Here is old poem idea I've had for ages about favourite album titles and the feelings that the music of each inspired in me at the time. My old vinyl records - nostalgia. You've got to guess the artists. It's not laid out in a poem style fro a reason, and that's becasue a design friend of mine some years ago formatted (God knows how) into a circular text shaped as an LP. It just needed a lable like 'Comumbia Records' in the middle. Anyway it was an experiment a perhaps a tad too retro. I find since getting back to writing in gerneral it is more like re-writing / reading my old rambles and finding new joy in them. Please enjoy!
Long . Player .
Jamming down stanley road one day, with an appetite for destruction, whilst levelling the land, i acquired a taste for beverage in the dynamite jet saloon. Then swallowing some pills, thrills, and bellyaches, i continued onwards with a rush into moving pictures, persisting thoughts of a second coming in stone of the Kings of the wild frontier, awakened from their slumber on the dark side of the moon, after feasting at their beggars banquet. Heading further on streets, stuffed with people from a different class of generation terrorists, all humming their urban hymns, and all each waiting for their bite from the fat of the land, i found myself diverted to the best of Velvet undergrounds, with blue desires expecting to fly, complete with a beach boy look and good vibrations feeling red hot with my own uplift mofo party plan, as i boarded my train. My destination was to reach solstice point with the cult at the sonic temple and things seemed hunky dory so far. A busking magician made the best of the Clash with his dummy but I could easily see that he was no master of puppets and it was all just done with mirrors. Anyway I dropped another mind bomb with my walkman and began to rattle and hum after reaching pop eutopia. But another passenger leant forward and stopped my tape and told me harshly with his bushy eyebrows to simply 'be here now'. Then he proudly pronounced his operation mindcrime to undermine his great escape as modern life is rubbish. I told him to never mind the bollacks and to quit devilhopping with his sky aspiring emotions. Then the train stopped and we all took flight up to our hips within the bustling mosley shoals of swarming people, all swaying to the music for a jilted generation. I had to find a nearby terminal to e-mail a friend with an idea that could shake his money maker, i did then it was ok computer, as i carried on to meet my colleagues at the ritual de la habitual.
©David Addington 1997