If I have a device that takes me to the world of Lilliputians at will, it’s my radio that blares not every tune but the one demanding punk’d dreams. The dreams born in the hemisphere of Italy and exported to the other demanding lands. The radio catches like frog jump catching its own shadows but nonetheless failing all the times. It’s a dead radio I am talking about which when was new was envy of the family as it would have inbuilt sensors of touch that I presume with my habit of playing Pele with the radio got dead.
Once put on Soundcloud, if we could ever put a radio onto Soundcloud, it had speakers detachable which once plugged to the android let the Soundcloud froze on its own. The colour was black and noir films it would stream on Youtube like a charm. Then I fell in love with a girl who had white earphones, they sneaked through the streets on her whim and off packed my radio without any speakers.
It could not talk, the talk shows were just blatantly empty void. It would just produce a rattle for a hum. Then I was day dreaming about Julie Christie, her ever demanding presence in Doctor Zhivago would be trimmed into cuts of the speech where the poetry of Doctor Zhivago is recited and I decided to recite my own poetry instead. The lurking shadows of nothingness remains nothingness on my punk radio as it would not recite anything. All silence and no romance makes the head start to football game a demeaning shortcut of the narrative. I am really struggling nowadays with my radio it would be a self pleasing rogue on female worship.
The games are for the mind, when football gets into the goal one feels as if the cat has left the hot tin roof, fearing a mouse on the loose. The cat romancing the air it pawns past, I put on the radio loud as if the girl next door hears not the boos of the crowd but the smooches of the radio antenna catching the game.