Construction Time again

I take the Billy Ray Cyrus CD back. The cover looks like a clean cut semi-shirtless swiss-miner, hammering away into the eternal eyeliner blue of what I can only perceive is the European countryside I missed out on viewing last year.

 The CD has two songs I have heard before that were included on.

It is my first CD. It comes in what looks like a skyscraper case. As I leave co-op the gentleman with the long hair behind the counter looks at me before addressing me as dude.

“Dude, you like serious need to recycle that.”

 I look back. He points to the cardboard box. I drop it in the bin by the door that says, DUDE< recycle.

It takes a breath and a meted second for the disc to read. It oscillates and sneezes and then flashes the respected number of tracks.

It begins with a sizzle from a synthetic wok.  A heralding chorus of synthesized glass. The tear drop trickle of keyboard, a testimonial fugue The voices merge, coalescing in falsetto rivulets, it percolates into a pop-merge, whispering chimes, a wielding cacophony at the end, yielding a chandelier of sound, more than a party, gnawing dissonance of a fete, a gala incising the auditory plinth of the human condition, the stuttering searing Chinese water torcher of ameliorated clangs  pipeline wallows into a vortex of hurt.

 It sounds like a heralded wind-chime made out of a Yamaha keyboard.

But I can't get past the fourth song. I listen to it over and over again, pressing the digitalized sneeze of the CD back, 

It feels like adolescent is ebbing engendered in cosmopolitan pangs and intermittent chimes, the guttural racket of a subway car hushes into the oblivion of a metropolitan I will never know, Breath of wires amplifies tonal juxtapositions christening arboretums, crescendoing cy of a xylophone. I picture a goth-elicited masquerade screeching through underground of the British Isles. It sounds like technology is bleeding and then healing itself. Everything Counts scratches and paws, it jilts and offers sentimental drubbings in levitating economic baubles of sync. I pictured Europe.

It is impossible to listen to early Depeche Mode and not think about Paris, the trip I felt last year was  somehow mine.

It is the song I am destined to hear.

Depeche Mode D.M. The same initials as Dawn Michelle.