My Poetry: Too Late

Too late

---

As the needle hits
old worn tracks
I feel it in my bones,
I was born
a disciple of a decade
I cannot understand
so with practiced patience
the needle drops one more time
onto charity shop vinyl
from three decades past.
The opening chords
from a whiskey soaked
bar-room performer
warms the blood,
envy of those heady days
when powdered exotic bodies
elegantly wasted
in seedy hotels
created folk lore
stories to inspire
future guitar generations.
It nullifies this week's
radio 1 playlist
'hits’ no better than bum notes
begging to be forgot
digital dial moving
from bland to pointless
promoting pop stars
who don't fizz
while DJs younger
than my favourite shirt
jostle for prime time TV slots
and photo shoots
in Heat
next to a grinding Miley
proving it’s porn
before consciousness
no place for a modern day
Janis or Joni
just R+B singers
with no sex appeal,
chart toppers devoid of substance
but oh so stylish
in the lifestyle mags
full of so so celebs
preoccupied with themselves
but oh so in tune
with the national trend
for an adolescent culture
Champagne updates and followers
on social media,
idolising Twerk teens
and pricks acting like role models
only proving school
doesn't necessarily pay.
When the needle hits
I know I was born
three decades too late.