Video Killed the Radio Star
—The Buggles
It happens all the time—
cassettes were the death of
vinyl. Streaming slayed CDs.
And records pull a Lazarus
after the stone is rolled away.
We only loved the Twins
upon their crumble. Our
mother upon cessation
of her breath.
They say the Great
Depression
was indeed its
dénouement,
though talkies
and Marconi
tilled its grave.
There are things you can
never get back, no matter
the pull of your will:
I will juggle grapes,
pluck them one-
by-one, while the bunches
do a ferris wheel
above my magic hat.
Look below its brim—
an eagle in lieu
of a dove ; a lion in
place of a hare, its mane of
golden flame, a hoop
through which to leap.
And if this fails
to be enough to
bring it back, I’ll snap
the worn suspenders
which are snaked
about my shoulders,
soft-shoe à la
Franco the Drunken
Clown, whom no one
ever heard of,
and if they had,
they’d see he offered twice
the tricks as me,
his nose of red, afire,
swelling like Antares,
swallowing up the
curtains
before we’ve had the
chance to cheer ;
that neither
David Copperfields
could ever pull it off—
the one whose
Lady Liberty
disappeared,
the other from Dickens’
novel, swathed in industrial
soot, walking stick
aglow, joining
Ziegfeld Follies
at its peak, dancing
on the stage
like only a dead man
possibly can.
Andreas Gripp
February 16, 2025
RF Image
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