A Groovy Kind of Love?

This is what we meant by spin
before the doctors of politics
collared it
made it their own --
us whiling away
days to remember at H.M.V.
feeling the way of the vinyl
as slowly it turned
into something more final.
Spinal perhaps,
like the spine of a book
that neither had read
or a cord that ran through it.

Then spin letting sin
creep into the frame.
Two partners in crime
but under the skin.
Not knowing the rules of the game. 
Well trusted friend
grooming me. 
(This
I know now -- though he,
I am sure, did not see it so.)

Bach. Brahms. Beethoven. Britten. Liszt. All
of them tarred with the same brush, kissed
by the devil. But fit to fight back --
and how fit they were!
He bought me my first new L.P.
my earliest Britten
and first symphony.
(My very first set)
Yet no one suspected a thing.
Did they know, I wonder,
that such things were?
The world was different then.

Looking back, it was spin
and spin time I valued,
remember the best.
The time in the cubicle,
sound-proofed and bullet proof
just he and I
spinning the discs,
trapped by the vinyl
lost in the sound.

(Serving in Italy
during the war
he'd seen too much
of what happens to guys
who go with girls.
Hence, I suppose, 
there was me. I was clean.)

Later. Unease.
Feeling something was wrong.
Keeping a distance.
Later still. Guilt.
I'd taken his gifts,
but giving them back
would involve explanations.

Image as prompt from Tess Kincade at The Mag