writing, as per usual, of journeys, remembrance, death, love "stars, blood, soul". on you go again. these were the whole of your poetries a pitiful corner of the real and potential world. advances? Whitman's loud prancing, Breton's vomit, Ginsberg's pissy apocalypse? collapse severed prose for lazy ponces selected razors for slight minds. poetry comes from allergic living. Write about normality all you like it's no realer for description. gaze of word-wrapping repels ordinariness, negates as it affirms. glory in ordinary life more than I can manage. I amn't wonderful enough to be happy with just sense.