I know that song...

it weeps down his cheeks when he is alone

in his man cave or sitting on his throne

grinding his axe, confused how nought gets cut

from the rut of the world at large.

The needle goes round.

It makes a crackling sound.

Old fires forged inside decreasing lines of vinyl.

The final flickers of what once was

before magic left his land

inside bitter blasts of sand

that had once lain golden along an infinite horizon.

Shores a man could set his sights on and shoot at from the hip.

Today's bandwidth, he says, is unintelligible noise

Sung out by mealy-mouthed girls and boys

who have never even lived.

What can they give to an old lost soul

mined from coal, dragged indoors from the pit

who's survived on nought but his wit

back when only angels lived in the clouds

not emergent crowds of human consciousness.

I listen at the door

his riffs vibrating through the floor

muffled only by our nineteen eighties shag pile.

It's been a while since we have done anything new.

"Cup of tea?" I chirp into the dark beyond.

That sanctum where women do not belong.

*Silence*

The song clicks off, and the needle rises.

No, he says, and with no surprises, the pin drops again

to itch its way back to his melancholic vein

while he bleeds over what he has lost

and the cost to all of mankind.

I walk away and in my wake, the old crows croon

and I know that always and forever, it will be the same old tune

For there is only room in his heart for what he has lost

because

because

because

because

equality does not set a man free

and privilege can only see its oppression.