Crates that open worlds of
sheltered memories that stink of carpet and tobacco

Torn from houses that lost their love
through a misplaced dream
Passed from lover to other
Yet still wound up as thrift shop bargain

Yelling to be saved through etched surface noise
The sweat that carried through puffed out twists
smudged inside
By elongated fingers that cuddle a rhythm from pain

Stamping names
In run out-grooves
Of a lifetime’s lust

With name listed on spine
Printed once and then left to die
Yet re-earthed by a movement twitching at buried noises
like a Howard Carter

The dig is bigger than all you know
It’s in all minds
Like a family tree still waiting for disclosure

In sunlight it burns at skin
And blossoms the toes
Of pathways to rhythmic tremor
That only vultures know
Could be passed as pleasure

The dig is in us all
Catalogued and facing outwards

Stay tuned for the next pressing of the Rhythmic Archaeology anthology. In the meantime if you want to dig deep with dusty fingers you can get your dose of diggers delight down Dig A Little's Forest Gate Record Fair at Tracks on Sunday 29th May, 1pm-6pm. For further info follow @digalittlee7