(based on suggestions from @greenspace01, @1000yearsago, and @matchtrick)
Not enough music is carried
at shoulder height any more.
We annoy each other politely
with polyps tucked out of phase
Tiny boom-boxes secreted
about our person like
Potter in the broom cupboard,
voice coils and cones replaced
with expanding foam plugs.
Speakers used to manifest as fashion
A parrot for a sound-pirate
blaring like a million fire engines
chasing ten million ambulances
through a war zone. It squawked:
the funk soul brother was coming.
Right about now. Check it out.
It made the empty air bleed.
I’m not saying it was pleasant.
Played at a volume that squeezed
your vagus nerve in a group hug.
Vital fluids braked with a screech,
the bottom dropped out of the world
like a javelin broom handle.
A transient response wrote
beats on the wall of your skin.
It was unapologetic, it had balls.
That’s all I’m saying.
_________________________________________
Today's poem is based on suggestions from three peeps:
- @greenspace01: “Boom-boxes, broom cupboards and group hugs”
- @1000yearsago: “expanding foam”
- @matchtrick: “If there’s a chance you could squeeze DM’s take on Fat Boy Slim into a future poem, you’d be doing me a favour.”
Big stereos were awesome. They annoyed people without apology, not in the tinny-music-that-you-pretend-other-people-can't-hear-that-bleeds-out-of-crappy-earbuds.
This is all very 'back in the day' of me. But boom-boxes on shoulders were a statement. They said: "I don't care if you don't like my music. Complain and I'll cut you." Yeah.
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