It didn’t take me too long to realise that most writers are fairly unbearable sods; just that I might have neatly enough and rather quite purposely unearthed enough jovial sods in my particular circle of sods to feel like a bearable man by the end. Ah no… I guess I’m as good a person as my group of peculiar sods can be, I’m sure. Ah, to be perfectly honest I don’t quite know where the writing stops and I start, and of course the other way round too. It’s the safest haven I know, and to be very fair with myself, one thing I do understand and that is that I kind of deserve a safe haven by now. Basically, and the four-thousand or so prose and storied poems are wholly included in this odd observation, I’ve somehow thank Christ become my favourite psychologist. I’m placing myself somewhere between steam-of-conscience-writing and… enough pain lived through to feed the addiction for unashamedly suggestive rhythm smacked severely atop of seriously lucrative literature to last a brand new and balanced lifetime. Wait. Was I imbalanced? Was. I. What. When read aloud, that is. When my words are read on the page, dull as that robotic endeavour will always appear to be for me, even however good the writer is, people are all too often utterly brain-boggled because I am just not interested in a sentence structure that plainly resembles all of the sentence structures in very nearly all of the books. ‘Mistakes’ are ultimately the stepping-stone for me to finally produce one ‘beautiful’ book by the end. That’s all I ever wanted – one book that I can perhaps read and reread and tell myself, “how the hell did you get from there… to here!!? Well done.” I’m not huge on quotes (says the fella who’s actually knee-deep in such a thing right this minute!!) but this one stands out for me: ‘An author who talks about his own book is almost as bad as a mother who talks about her own children’ – Benjamin Disraeli. So obviously I’ve no real interest in talking about any of my poems at all then. Oh! And this quote kind of works too: ‘Between you and me, I am not deep, but I am very wide, and it takes time to walk around me’ – Honore de Balzac. I never had any interest in being seen as the best at anything. In fact, I shy away from it in many weird and wonderful ways, for me at least. It’s too generic a goal, I feel. A terrifically tried and tested thing too many times over the jaded course of too many jading bloody centuries. I have, put simply, grown tired of needing to please myself. Mine comes from others happiness, and that isn’t anywhere near remotely selfless – you guys are exactly the place I bleed my poems from, every second of every day. Happy campers shift their observation constantly, and neither does it need to be followed until everyone and their dog follows and then, you wanna drop the tent and go home only home is right there… in your head. I bet if you were to ask any writer worth their salt, they’d happily admit to much preferring taking a slash outside and against the weight of the wind.
‘The sense that this man walks and talks in his wide awake dreams means more than anything she shall ever restore … in him’ – Poet Art