A CLARIFICATION NOTICE

long time back i was asked to write a piece about my writing process for a university webpage*

it included the statement 'i write poetry waking up'

it has occurred to me this needs clarifying -

i dont literally wake up spouting worthy posey, that sounds pretentious or a medical issue

no thats not what i meant

i meant that to get writing done, i often go straight to the desk with coffee number one & start writing, start looking at phone notes & notebook scribbles & out the window & on the mind-shelves & while i am doing this i wake up

to summarise -

i WAKE UP while working on writing poetry
i dont wake up WRITING poetry

i hope this has settled the issue

*here it is here -
https://unipress.hud.ac.uk/news/57/

 

EMPTY WEEKDAY AFTERNOON PUBS 199?

i'd
been hanging out with Dave
since he got 
a
license
and
an old green Cavalier 

it was knee deep 
in brown paper
take-away bags 
and
the
driving seat was broken and jammed in recline

i think he thought the mess made him cool
and
we
all
grew
our
hair

he
moved
to
Brighton for college

i
went
to visit


to do something
drunk
and easy
in
sea
air

i slept in the old uni halls
on
his
rough and dirty carpet 
with
jeans
folded up for a pillow 

light and noise coming in under the door

cold - itchy

turning cleaners away
in
the
disgusting early AM


people were reinventing themselves

making
up
new drug pasts

EVERYONE had spent the summer 
dealing speed and E's
to
bands
with impossible names

everyone
got uptight about j etiquette
and
hot-knife technique

arguing
with
the straight jocks and science bods
in shared kitchens
about noise
and
stolen food
and
fundamental political and lifestyle choices 


but Dave was still Dave
for a while longer

his room was ground floor
small bushes going autumn brown under the window
and
by
11 AM we'd had some weed
and
climb over the sill and laugh the five steps
to 
the 
back door of the union bar
and
we'd pour cider and cheap scotch
into our morning breath
and
rattle the Star Trek pin ball
till 
the cook turned up to fry lunch burgers
and limp onion 
with supermarket ketchup
and
ok
oven 
chips
in a fake basket
lined with fake newspaper


then
we'd dodge the train fare into town
and
shop
for
psychedelic vinyl
and
drink in empty weekday afternoon pubs

and i remember wishing then
that
i
could
spend my life in empty weekday afternoon pubs
drinking
and
looking at all the carved wood and dreaming


feeding 
pound nuggets
into the jukebox for Stones songs
and
racking
up
the
pool

from drinkingbrighton.co.uk

TOO MUCH 2

too much inner dialogue of ill hot thoughts

to get my

burnt hiding mind round tomorrows real future

too much

so 

i

ran

from

the spot light of accidental university

to the retail rut of shift work mall 

killing me every dawn over greasy spoon breakfast

where time crushed its top hat 

standing on its subjective head

too much

too much - i poured neat cheap rum in bitter black coffee

and smoked a smokeless hash pipe

on the two trains home 

after found whisky and babbling high existentialism 

in 

that 

mad 

guys 

van

1988 ford escort by scott barrett