Shape ‘n send forw’d the currents riv’ring by! With your time-warped scraps the bed doth lie suffused!
Ferry me upriver.
No calligraphy you’ll lay that isn’t art.
Now riddle it with chaos: muddied fury lit by mob-borne flame.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.
Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.
I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.
Gotta. Gonna. Wanna.
Where is the poetry and where’s the poet that it clasps to?
Play, pleigh, puhley.
I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.
Somestuff to present to whomsoever ever reads it.