East Hill today would be listening to the pantheism
of psychedelia – lysergic lyrics all in the hearing, and
then breathing in wah-wah from the air, dancing in the
fuzz beneath his feet, meeting god with music in that ideal
of love from a different past where he would surely sing
a light in sound, a
sound-like power in light aloud again
played along the retro Aeolian riffs inside his poet’s head.
No X Factor manufacturing
for Sam nor even modern
echoes from afar, ST would want, like me, the sound to
ride within a carrying wind from its purest source, caressing
above to a spiritual dream – that is until a different power
chides and chills, like Sara’s miserable-making reproof, so
both our hilltop, singsong hopes are auto-tuned and dead.
