It’s my latest middle class obsession:
I’ve got into collecting vinyl records.
Yeah, I know it’s such a clichéd thing
To do, but there it is. And now it’s in
This poem I wrote, for which nobody asked.
Christ, I must be such an insufferable arse.
About two years ago I stopped abusing
Torrent sites to download all my music.
I got into the habit of travelling in
To town a couple of times a month to get
The things I wanted – CDs, books – and bringing
Them back, stuffed into plastic bags. And it
Was strangely satisfying. I had a routine.
About six months ago I changed it up.
I bought a record player – a pretty machine –
And started getting 33s. I stopped
At 78s. That seemed a step too far.
But I did come to love the faintly hissing
Needle in the groove. I took the car
To town at first, but much preferred the pissing
Rain to hit me straight. It seemed more pure
Somehow, the faintly hissing sound. I heard
The voice of angels in the noise, endured
The wetness and the din. I felt a certain
Calm. I sold the CDs and the books
And then the car. I didn’t want distractions
Anymore. And though I got some looks
From strangers, who considered it an infraction
When I gave my clothes away, it didn’t
Bother me. To friends, I bid good riddance,
Left my home, and ditched my family.
I ditched the record player. I was free.