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Indie Vinyls MAG
I could write a poem that no one could tell
is from 809 miles away,
Or upstairs – it would just be about home
Scratches on the old chestnut wooden door
Covered by a yellow smiley face flag,
As it opens – indie tunes spill noisily
Whiff of a rushed morning – floral, dry shampoo
Half filled sweet body mists, forever stained
On vinyl covers nailed into the pastel blue walls
Chipped from fallen fairy lights
S T A R G I R L
Radiates above a timber frame,
Reflecting off dried contacts – next to the bottle of aspirin
Stopping red Expo markers from rolling
off the window sill
To reach for it, you’d trip over a pair
of gleaming cherry Doc Martens
Tumbling into the rosy quote scribbled across the glass
Sinking into the glowing sunset
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