a cult is spread through the head
tying loser to loser to loser
vinyl encases private fetishes
unpublished on coffee tables
you had chances; preferring glances
polaroid eighties; Asian models
New York soundtracks in the provinces
enough to make anyone cry and laugh
voice sticking on every syllable
turning the sublime heart-rendering-ly simple
king of every bedroom regret
we worship what we can’t collect
oh my departed friend
we’ll always have the memory
of your mylar-encased vinyl
and CD collection
i’ll always remember you crying
over the obscurity of Jay Alanski
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