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–

Makes it?

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

your heart

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,

over-stimulated?

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

floundering.

Songs become favorites because of their resemblance

to moments, to people, to

memories of being less miserable.

What does a song mean,

without people?

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

grouping of

chords, groove and melody.