Spinning around the a4044
the unholy fuck of Bristol highways
jumping lanes and lighting up the
average speed checks.
Still I trundle towards
left leaning sideroads
turning around where possible
and creaking through roundabouts
and over snaking junctions
and castigated discount megastores.
Poetry is motion, light
and choice words stretched
onto open roads. Gyrating through
underground overground anyground
carparks; leaking into shopping playgrounds
and squeaky lifts. Smells of varnish, clothes dye, cleaning
solution and cellophane strip misconception.
‘Its bloody nice here’
Records spin, notes permeating with
old beats, complimenting penny whistles
and the thwack of opening umbrellas, jostling
shoulders and heavy footsteps.
This city of mine, grand and altogether
the product of 21st century jizm and archaic
cathedral hyperbole. This City of ours, hours flooding
to days and weeks to years.