Play me like a Cylinder, Baby
–by Becky WTGH
How many plays does it take to get to the center of a hit?
How many times do they have to sing it, before it–really truly–
How catchy does the melody
Need to be in order for the beat
To match my heart’s tempo, my inside key ?
Is it repetition,
Is it familiarity?
What do you hear, when you put it on repeat
That song you love,
the one that makes
skip a beat?
Is it the reflection of her
That you always used see,
But has since faded?
So you pick her up, dust her off
And throw her on the needle.
It never hurts to play it.
Song, melody, truly spending
this is not time wasted.
Love speaks music,
Music, nowadays at least, is free!
Any music, anywhere,
downloaded fresh for me.
Has love too, since devalued ?
Is love, like music, now–a commodity?
Is love available on Itunes,
downloading, syncing with your cloud
Can I turn it up, surround myself in love;
can I play love real, real loud?
Do I get stuck in your head,
like your favorite song did;
or are you at capacity,
What makes me your favorite,
what ever did?
We are all the same, just like music
Parts, rearranged, forced together
for communion. Harmonies weakening
our individuality bobbing, weaving
Songs become favorites because of their resemblance
to moments, to people, to
memories of being less miserable.
What does a song mean,
Music, like a god, doesn’t care about you;
It made you, it fed you, and now it’s beside you.
A language spoken indirectly,
messages from deep inside you.
Music is love, a tool.
A vocabulary for hapless fools.
Music is proof that our love was true
and that you felt it, too
A capsule, a memory
What is your favorite song?
Glad you asked;
It’s a completely arbitrary
chords, groove and melody.