These are the barren days: barren between the
joints of the world, as barren as a
knuckle impacting a chin. Sometimes you
just get fucked off by selfish fuck nuts.
We claim for a new kind of bedlam:
within popular culture. She was the
type of woman who always refused to
wear knickers – only everything else she
referred to as lingerie. Can we ever
rematch the euphoria of youth –
even if age is a different kind
of rapture? Is this a different sound
I have in my head these days? A different
soundscape; somewhere more in tune with myself,
and place, and country, within which I live.
I had lost focus within my mind,
nothing more, nothing less. ‘I know nothing,’
was nothing more than a starting point upon
which everything else was built. Welcome back
to dear old Blighty. A poet will always
eventually reach a point where certain
things no longer matter. Just be fucking
gregarious.