My internal soundtrack echoes,
Between my
earlobes,
Inside my
bone dome,
But neighbours
don’t bang on the wall,
Because they
can’t hear it at all.
It helps me
get through doing.
All the
things that I don’t want to do,
But have to
do.
It plays me
snatches of,
Bowie,
Steely Dan and Stan
Webb of
Chicken Shack
They all get
played back.
It’s never
the whole tune,
And it’s not
Always what I
want.
I hoped that
I’d forgotten
Dave Dee, Dozy,
Beaky, Mick and Titch,
But they
echo through decades,
Like an
irritating aural itch.
If you think
that that’s bad
How about a
random slice of tune,
From an
advert for a product
That I neither
need nor want?
But I can’t
shake it off,
I hear it in
here, more than enough.
Some people
hear it colours,
Thus, perhaps
making art,
But that’s
not me.
I’m not
Mozart,
Composing wonderful
symphonies.
Just patches
and snatches.
From my
synapses
Playing inside
my head instead.
It could be
worse
As I’m
Not averse
To sitting
on the crapper
Listening to
Frank Zappa
Singing ‘I’m
The Slime’.
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