To be truthful it’s an absolute crashing of chaotic words and suitably, I think, searching – hopefully AND hopelessly quite often – for that sense of… secondary rhythm. Brand new rhythm, and not the old and worn-out, out-of-touch rhythm that everyone has come to understand and even… respect. I see stuff being delivered via spoken word on the telly and I usually either grimace or simply leave the room. Thinking, “My god, that’s the level we are supposed to be sticking with, abiding by. The level we are supposed to be continually following”. Holy shit. And then the president writes a piece and you’re left thinking.. “Ah, for fucccksaaaake!” What’s with the poems about the bloody fields of Ireland and the rain. A man kissing a woman’s neck 😴 And the… bloody same old things. It’s like the ones with the words at their disposal, at the tip of their tongues, need a crash course in life-experience. Or just watch a gory, decent Scorsese film. Or, whatever. That’s where I’m most informed anyhow. Maybe. Maybe not. Like as though they are literally just writing the pieces on a typewriter for the sake of being a writer who writes… pieces on a bloody typewriter. Course it agitates me. I’m only a writer in so far as those are the utensils I use, utensils that make me appear to be that particular thing. I couldn’t give a rats ass about the poetry landscape in Ireland, cos it’s always about the landscape anyway 😆 Cows, fields, chickens, kiss a girl… cry about it. The emotions are severely stunted. Then it just becomes a conveyor belt of cyclical shit