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.
Take syllabic space ‘n empty it of possibility.
I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.
Only, really, time for teaching (worth it) others.
Words like water…
Better sung, better danced, better played.
First. Last. Any.
How do you spell music?