booma_Musik
New member
idk if any of y'all are into this, I've taken multiple cracks at trying to paint a picture of what crate digging is like(at least for me), with words. i just finished up with this joint a couple minutes ago, it's called "crate diggers ballad." any body else got some crate digging poetry they wanna share?
peep-
The record shop's door swings open, as his eyes light up with wonder like street lights in the dead of night. He removes his head-phones & inhales deeply, as his eyes scan the room; as a soldier's eyes would a battlefield, sizing up potential opponents. "Let's do this." He approaches the nearest dusty, pastel-colored milk crate & begins to thumb through the worn down, pre-owned records impulsively; as if it were itself a bodily function. "Columbia, Mercury, Blue Note, Solar, Capitol, Atlantic." He checks off his favorite labels, carefully selecting records, setting them aside; guarding them from fellow diggers: just as a Lion guards it's kill from scavengers in the scorching heat of the Kalahari. Milk crate after milk crate, isle after isle of records, he repeats this simple process; until the stack of Vinyl underneath his arm is too heavy to bear, and he is forced call it a day. He reluctantly approaches the clerk & makes his purchase, placing the admirably thick stack of vinyl inside his book-bag & throwing it over his back, as he turns towards the door. Placing his head phones back on his head, he glances back as he exits the shop, smirking. "I'm not done with you yet," He thinks to himself, as if telling the record shop; as it very well knows: this is by far the last time it'll be seeing him..
peep-
The record shop's door swings open, as his eyes light up with wonder like street lights in the dead of night. He removes his head-phones & inhales deeply, as his eyes scan the room; as a soldier's eyes would a battlefield, sizing up potential opponents. "Let's do this." He approaches the nearest dusty, pastel-colored milk crate & begins to thumb through the worn down, pre-owned records impulsively; as if it were itself a bodily function. "Columbia, Mercury, Blue Note, Solar, Capitol, Atlantic." He checks off his favorite labels, carefully selecting records, setting them aside; guarding them from fellow diggers: just as a Lion guards it's kill from scavengers in the scorching heat of the Kalahari. Milk crate after milk crate, isle after isle of records, he repeats this simple process; until the stack of Vinyl underneath his arm is too heavy to bear, and he is forced call it a day. He reluctantly approaches the clerk & makes his purchase, placing the admirably thick stack of vinyl inside his book-bag & throwing it over his back, as he turns towards the door. Placing his head phones back on his head, he glances back as he exits the shop, smirking. "I'm not done with you yet," He thinks to himself, as if telling the record shop; as it very well knows: this is by far the last time it'll be seeing him..
