Black-toothed illuminated beasts
like chunks of laboratory equipment
left over from a failed experiment.
In the smoky slow haze a surge
for the scratched days and the
warped days, whirring the moment.
Answers drift in and out from the furry bass
and the tinny treble, and the babble
has the hiccups of an old alcoholic.
Listen, there’s a ghost there’s a ghost there’s a ghost
the scuff | scuff | scuff | of the needle on the run-out groove
tired footsteps dragging through dust | dust | dust |
.
Mark Valentine