Wednesday, June 8, 2011


(to Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir")

I was the son, deep frown and murky face
Friends rarely seen
My pa, a dabbler of bad tunes and tastes,
LP’s with grooves obscene
He’d smoke, saw embers of the cigarette
Would glow and smoke would stream
He’d play for days, the songs still resonate
I have barely healed

Tunes of wrong from flute of little taste
Bounced within my ears
Notes, never worst were heard, old man would play
The horror, still I hear
Uh oh
Uh oh

Sadly, I’m not lying
Still hear her a-cryin’
Nooo rest
I hear her pining
Pan flute is whining.
Pain defining.”

Still my knees
Fall to ground
Frightful hum
Hurtful sound
And eyes cry
Tears wet hand
Can’t they ban
That grating man?

Trapped in my mind
Trapped in my mind
Need relief...

Lived, I have, through the storm that aged my face
Did plot, yea, I did scheme
Found the stash of LP’s, fed my rage
Father's fast asleep
I grabbed them all and took to kitchen room
Our stove did prove a friend
Lit the heat, the vinyl’s doom
Loved broiling his Zamfir.

Said father, “Oh, the torment. Baked my grail.
A loss, to me and ears.
But made provision, son, a techno grace.
The songs, you see, are here.”

Uh oh
Uh oh

Turning on
Fluty song, I caved
When I heard
When I heard the CD’s play...

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