Yes, there is perhaps a way of creating a style of writing that will undeniably work across the board when it comes to people and their getting to let themselves read your writing. It won’t be easy, of course it won’t. However, it can in fact actually be done, and done well, too. That was and still is my overall aim – to somehow, anyhow, manage to create fiction which speaks to the layman, the poet, the strange brains, if you like. If you will let me be so very glib and understanding. It takes time, and I still haven’t entirely managed it, I’m relatively sure of that. But I am also left to wonder, and quite often at that, that what if I have already created that particular style of writing. That a foundation has been set in stone. It can live and love and breathe inside of you, right by the bolster of your brain. You cannot not go deep when writing and producing and creating poetry, even if you say that you are not trying to be deep. That is just my lot, how my head works. Ten hours thinking. Maybe… twenty minutes with the actual poem in place, begging to relay itself, because I sure as shit ain’t doing that kind of relaying. That does come from someplace else. Problematic? Yes. Beautifully messed up, no doubt. Egotistical? Oh yes! Like you would never let yourself believe. A truly astonishing thing to attempt as best you can to behold it and to use it to the very best of its potential, it really is. To wrestle with the type of forbidden style and to finally realise that what you do end up finishing and writing will always and forever be what you can write at any given time. Interesting. Yes. Intriguing, no damn doubt about it. Painful? By ten. Mean-minded, yes, but if you do believe that you were built for something then you will most probably have no other choice than to follow it and stretch it to the core. To restore a rightful degree of cut-out writing, to bring poetry back to the people, even those who least wanted and expected to wish to read, ever. I am one of those people, by the by. So unbelievably am I one of those people in fact. So it is two-sided and rather undesirably enticing for me. I am literally tied to a constant working of a poem. That’s my lot, my head, my movement and how my mind works itself out, I guess. I have, I think, finally, recently, reached a point wherein I don’t care one tiny bit what people think, because, as it turns out, the ghosts of yesteryear were right when they stated that a writer must love their own writing first and foremost. It is the only thing in the world that I can sit down or stand up and do without thinking about anything else going on about the place. And that must really mean that everything has to be fine. Right? Ten hours writing non-stop, or ten hours ruminating about one thing or ten thousand things? C’mon, you do the math on that one. Because I’ll leave it to myself to do the math on the style of writing I have chosen for myself to use and to fixate upon and land so succinctly. It is entirely mathematical for me. No damn doubt about that above all other things. This is just absolute unedited rambling and that will add to the next part of the next idea for the next poem. That I am sure of. Was Heaney a good poet? I really cannot say, because of all the poems that he wrote, along the way adding a Nobel prize in literature to the mix, only one stands out for most people – Midterm Break. And that was most definitely because it was drilled into people at school. That cannot surely be a good ratio of return on his part, can it!? It is a layman’s poem, however, so you can’t really say much fairer than that part of his reckoning. One poem left to linger would destroy me with time tough. I need roundabout seven bowls of cereal in one single sitting, never just the one. Fuck that. I told a person recently that I see people in words. Total bullshit fib, but they believed it, and let them believe and fake it til you make it, or whatever you perceive to be making it. Right now, I can’t really see anything being enough regard what I do perceive might be my making it. Perhaps therein lies the glass-ceiling to be broken. Writing is far too open-ended and upsetting a thing for people to attempt to understand. But do you go for it full hog, or do you let yourself end up writing Ann & Barry rhyme shite that you do see in most, not all, of the poetry books out there. Finally. Someone doing the medium an entirely separate way, even if they fail miserably 🙂