Displace.
New the familiar and carry forward.
Kettle don’t whistle but sing and breeze pixels off a sea on to passing train.
For the carriage.
It is beautiful as it warms and drops to a breath
which freely colds when metal table chimes as a wayward bell.
The hiss, if we let it, collective beneath the bell-tower eyes up in reverence.
Dust in the orbit of clatter.
Us.
Motor picks it up, forward to bathe in the howl of wonder-industry and calming mechanics and nature carries it forward.
Fed into lines that wholly move amassing transient layers till the gentle scatter of wires, free from utility.
Off work and dancing to a crescendo flatline.
Drive us in to the fade.
What are we if we’re not cavorting electrical charge with improvised harmony and stretching ambience?
Calls to a kettle.
Clipped to an engine.
Feel the wheel that won’t fit and makes the sound of fight.
Break with it and make it the sound of night.
And motion again.
And forward with breathers and bird
to humanics:
a threading tone through fragments and strewn words heard.
Gifts.
Sound out as we began
with the rally cry of displacement.
Wineglass as heart.
Forward.

Words by Kevin Hendrick