Records are a work of art.
Take one,
Then another.
Put them together, Make something new.
It’s dope,
It’s ill.
I blow the dust off another black circle.
Another forgotten memory,
Lost talent that time forgot.
The cracks, the hiss, and the pop.
An old sound never sounded so new.
In the darkness of the basement,
I’m mysterious
As a shadow cascading off the wall
Making my own beats,
Cutting up breaks like a musical chef.
You cannot comprehend
My melodic genius,
The outsider.
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