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.
I guess machines are people too. Prodding at buttons And twisting knobs and remembering data. Brains and pools of cloud Swim in ether Kinda like us, easing youth outta Jobs and creeping about in secret lives. Making life ‘easier’ when those In the middle hope for A dystopian future. All the jobs are taken, processing Completed with sharper metal minds And more nimble fingers. Photos snapped by drones Because after all they can see The bigger picture. There was a time when an apple Was fruit, sustenance and the first and final Penance of the human race. Movies shot on location by Former aluminium servants And editing completed by stripping Away humanity.