Friday, 21 September 2012


That musty smell of attics and dust
Circles around the Dynatron rust. 
The chair creaks, knows what’s to come,
That good old crackling hum. 

The cardboard sleeves that smell so old,
Contain the sound of angels, bold.
Angelic whispers of Bolan’s heart,
Charming and brave, the finest art.

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