Sometimes going backwards drives me forward.
If I search haphazardly in dark rooms,
Randomly tossing dusty detritus
Into tape decks, onto old turntables,
Sounds I never knew I’d lost bite me hard,
Drive me down dark highways without headlights,
No roadmap nor inane satnav pilot,
Only chaotic bang crash anarcho
Synthesis that leads on to memories
Not yet formulated in my old brain.
Unlike comfortable cover overcoats,
Trawled from well thumbed lyric poet chapbooks,
This buried treasure unheard by critics,
Fuses blown circuits into new formats.
These processes seem supernatural,
Oevre busting creative dynamite,
Eerie, scary, yet exhilarating.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 12th August 2022.