I am old,
like beetroot perhaps or peristalsis,
vocoders or rhubarb pie.
But in one way the sound of things
has only now caught me up.
Famously, women collect shoes, some anyway.
For me it has always been headphones.
I have them like dead tails in every drawer.
Music is for dancing in the field with.
Falling under the bed with.
Sobbing at the sea with.
It is dinner music also.
and the sound of an organ
in its own church.
All of these can be out loud,
but more and more the music must be listened to
in your head directly, as though injected.
This is not the perfect song.
But it is the sound of the song
I heard in my head in 1985.
I had been playing with a black Telecaster
plugged into a Nakamichi two-track machine
via a high-quality delay pedal.
I was completely sober.
It was early in the day.
The man whose equipment I was using,
whose house I was in,
whose floorboards I was sitting on,
It was a new thing for me, this Nakamichi.
I felt -in my ears and head- as though
someone had opened the gate to something.
This song is not that,
but it is the cousin of the photograph
of the idea of that.
Not the song itself,
if it is a song.
The sound capsule.
The tocsined sterility
(some poisonous bell).
There was a woman upstairs.
She was friend of the man.
Perhaps a good friend.
He told me, before he left,
that she -while very pretty- was diseased.
Later she drove me home.
But stopped at her own house.
She invited me, in. I declined.
I am uncertain what to do now.