Poem: Fucking With Time

 

Black boxes, clinking into the place and order when asked to deliver a ton of tune,

some bit of a tome. Squatting in corners, aged and true.

Vessels and vassals sitting for their cues: a jaundiced need for music aired or the

daughter newly printed; compliant Monkees spotted and writing to be run off.

 

It’s all but more nothing for they don’t record what song was played with which other.

What notion aired when weary ribbon proves a favourite scene was non-stop paused?

Were there tears that smeared the glass, a rewound heart apace with bass?

 

Black boxes deserve their own room, an enclosed circuit with a loop sans owner.

They were once another’s, all dents do show, as the paint-addled-come on a lid’s corner.

 

 

 

 

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