Drove around at night listening to the radio, darkness like a warm tunnel.
Words, like voices seep out’ve everything. Poetry wants to write it’s self
everywhere I look, it comes at us in waves, sometimes torrents, but always
there, slow trickling out’ve everything & into us like we were giant plug-holes.
So the radio is sometimes inspiration, sometimes a means of blocking out the
flood of words. Let’s not get started on colour as sound…ha ha ha!