I USED TO LISTEN TO MUSIC
Slow budget film takes the scenic route
thru the ordinary and tries to be cute.
There’s a scene the director refuses to cut.
It doesn’t bring much to the table or advance the plot.
The actor is alone, dancing in the basement.
There’s nothing to get. It’s a feeling, a moment.
It adds to the aesthetic. Some people won’t get it.
Subtle in the silence there was something poetic
In Another Scene: the actor’s driving at night,
rain on the windshield, blurry street lights.
They turn the stereo up, play my favourite song.
The actor does nothing, which is what i would’ve done.
I used to listen to music but now I just put it on.

It was the soundtrack, not just the background.
Am I indulging in dark thoughts or shutting them out.
I didn’t feel as alone knowing that someone else had expressed
the way that I felt when I felt depressed.
I thought I needed a reason for pain to be justified.
I was down and out but never hard done by.
My head was filled with words between my headphones.
I had said them to myself as if they were my own.
I read the liner notes to know when and where it was from
and how it was recorded. I could almost see that room.
And I could see your hometown when my eyes were closed,
right on top of mine as if the 2 were transposed.
I used to know all the words, now I just hum along.
I once said them as prayers at the top of my lungs.
I need it now as much as I did when I was young
because I’m afraid to admit that I’m more lost than I let on.
I used to listen to music but now I just put it on.

I stopped buying records once I moved 1 too many times.
I tried to sell all my stuff but where do you draw that line?
Which starts the paranoid existential bullshit I can’t turn off if I tried to.
Some art I couldn’t part with for the sentimental value.
Make time and space for art, because you make it for yourself.
All that I have left sits upon my shelf.
I got a chapbook of poetry sent to me thru the post
from a friend of a friend who I only met once.
It slowly flips open with a broken spine,
favourite lines highlighted, second hand thoughts inscribed.
There’s a history to this particular print
that tries to explain why it’s so difficult to exist.
Everything I own was placed at my feet.
As if what you’re into and what you have really makes you unique.
As I search for substance, even my misery is mediocre,
but it’s honestly ok, because we’re all in this together.
Am I defined by all I identify with in this room?
Am I just an amalgamation of all things which I consume?
Was I on to something or was it something I was on?
What changed in me? When did I forget how to have fun?
I used to be more enthused, how did I lose it?
I used to listen to music but now I just put it on.