TOPIC: being a turntable WORD: nightchild . please read both then vote for your fav with your winner's name in subject line . . . . (muddywaters will be deducted 1 point for being a day later than ToeJam, who was also late with his late ass!) . . . .
a new year is rising, i reflect on my past and realize i'm so different from i was crafted a vampire bastard, forever living beyond the one who created me at my lifes dawn motion clockwise, move forward like timelines native language heard, at thirty-three and a third was fed sounds naturally, regurgitated them static-ly having no options, i knew progress would come gradually i met music and for the record she was multi-layered cats came to know me as an automatic player cause it seemed like i played her, on the surface but underneath, i was just a tool for her purpose times change, she switched styles, i switched appearances i played her, she used me, but here’s the differences masterful classical, spiritual miracle, razzmatazz jazz, lower-class bluegrass afro junk funk, honkey-tonk country, uncontrolled rock n roll, and slave stroll soul if a party went down i was around and crowned essential, without me your shit’s a ghost town made asses shake from short skirts to evening gowns figured one day music and me would settle down our progress reversed, i would scratch her with diamonds or speed up her pace and fuck up her timing looking back now, we both did wrong what doesn’t kill you only makes you strong the year is at the bottom of the inning, i'm spinning wild a night child, restyled my baby to move the night crowd the next three hundred and sixty five dawns i hope music doesn’t mind me keeping her under my right arm
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. TOE JAM:
I dance w/ the most minute of seismic vibrations thru my analogue catalogue if you exercise patience I am magnetically connected to the earth’s poles capturing hurt souls recognizing that they’re worth gold from the first sold, when they didn’t know the half He changed the world son, yr Grandfather Phonograph w/ a crank and shaft he stirred a peoples revolution per minute I miss his old voice, and the cracks that were in it He taught us to listen, and to discern labels many nights could’ve turned fatal for your daddy turntable But, son, I A.C. adapted then I started shooting up on wax …just like gangsta rap did I be feenin’, scratching thru the night child searchin’ for that next hit, to give my stylus a nice style slide off my sleeve, belt tight, insert my needle the voices curl themselves up my ears and in the fetal Pumpin thru the mainline ‘til my RCA veins climb my arm, but I’ll never hawk the diamond at the end We went from gramophone to methadone to my son who’d rather blend A C.D. than the wax the has left tracks up and down yr fathers limbs you just don’t want to end up like him, sinning then singing the hymns w/ two black circles beneath my spinning eyes and both of us skip from time to time Our family has been built upon an evolution of intelligent designs known as electric music that will turn the tables once more, so feel free to explore but don't think of Pops as a junkie It's like pop music derived from poppies I just like to get faded from time to time but the blend is never sloppy I never overdose and leave a crowd comatose maybe someday, son, you'll come close and though our family's past might be checkered you ain't never gonna break my record...