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Graham Hartill
Smoke:
(for Albert Ayler)
Smoke from the riverbanks, music, swelling into pleasure borne downriver on the steamers, deposited back into nooks and elbows of thick Mississippi –
so soul lives, settlement persists – it’s the music,
the thoroughfare that is the people’s body lilts from entanglement of pain into the wide time of America’s shout
and it is always Easter whenever an artist discovers gold in the oldest songs and redeems it, shoving them onwards
to where they are ever wanted – the white continents’ eyes consumptive, glazed by capitalism, banal, and gagging for red soul-flowers
Easter Sunday morning – listening out for the giant Golden Day of a trumpet bell,
and the whipped ensemble of drum-skins,
the bowed bass
and the smoke
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