Poetry Centre

I love local radio on buses on clever days

  • The rain sham upon the windows of the bus perch as foreground to the wind grey that blocks
                                                                       the local radio station
    transmission of some shill lame Sting / Stipe wannabe act drowning on his own self professed
    recreation of someone elses miserable times transmuted by the power of delirium,
                                                                       invoked by the power of hysteria

    The wind smudges the signal like an eraser, an adults filter, subtracting whole choruses from
                                                                       the playlist of the sloth
    Tidies the dirty foxes, nature in mysterious ways, this is a beautiful three and a half minutes.

    by Andrew Luke
  • Note

    You may wonder why this poem has a very small font. On the web, it is very difficult with long line lengths to be true to the way that the poet intended. If you are interested you might like to read what Chris Jennings has to say on the subject on PageToscreen.