#4: No More Feedback

For the heart on a digital sleeve kissing

Guts spinning death through a staticky eve.

Feel history breathe, fuck your peace.

The disconnect from flesh to record burns me.

I’m lonely because I’m worthy.

Fingerpainting the groove-- its pointillist seams--

I scratch the itch of an Autumn regime, cold as the beat. Once

Lacerating my dreams, the block wields my relief.

So concrete, the chalk is graffiti. So needy.

So exclusive for my position, playhead

Schisms right as the radio Wishes You Hear. Fed from a 

Flinching clap to the jeers, something's near but nothing’s Here. 

Imprints of a soul strung in my ears.

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As the cavalry forms around the innards I played,

I totem solvent shackles Endtroducing a gatekept-

Crowd dressing me Stussy. Doubt's pulling my leg under

Needlepoint stickups crying for capital dregs.

The needlepoint stickups I balance atop my Dais

Make artists disperse to dummy for targets paved on betrayal.

Noise to culture’s a symphony’s gun to another’s function.

Amadeus to Machina crowds the record’s duction.

Here I sit between the inventions killing the story.

Hear the voice become signals toward pacifying the glory.

Here, my life is fabric for blindfolded B-boying

Divorced from tourist trapping the essence slaved to its prism.

Private and public eyes make concentric allegiance to

Sample the levers conmen cohere. Do unto hear

What lovers fear: Reprisal. Back to the heart’s survival.

Leave the armor slapped on the brand, kill the archival.

© Nick Zazove (2024)