I’ve been overlaid with more than sixty samples of funk

I’m way out past star cups, tingling
with shoobydoo sounds.
I’m the space lady who had
too much to dream last night
of mellow groups, an album leaf, tristesse
or the languid.

So, I was young and in love
geographically challenged
stuck in a car during a traffic jam.

(Is it possible to detach yourself from
the moment through music?
You’re supposed to think about it)

Am I ever likely to hear again
"Seven and seven is", "Psychotic reaction"?
I walk along a drive of tentative sounds.

I’m expert enough to navigate using a guidebook
though highly unlikely to begin my emotional nourishment.
Oh, the music glacier is slow, tarpit thick.
There's nothing to be afraid of!

I quake and tremble
using a rubber balloon to make all kinds of bizarre noises.
And I’m brave enough to listen to earth
littered with cigarette butts and empty cans.

I’ll ruin my eyes on the CD digipak
because I’m into
the controlled and crafted side of noise.
There's a heap of horns to be found there as well.

I’m such a collector
taking a chance, hey-ya.

I’m on the road to nowhere
and so rocksteady.


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