Joking.

My other fan (the one in Leeds, England) submitted this contribution which deserves exposure and no comment. It’s never too late Neil and of course I remember.

You drink a heady literary wine, evoke an ocean poem of eating.

Leave the food at home honey, I say: Tell the finks to listen to the ocean instead!

Over by the sand dunes where you ran your fingers through my hair,
tenderly biting my nipples when we kissed,
I dis-composed the urban scheme transfixed by the beauty of your skin
and you filled a whole paragraph in my book on living.

Together we drank before stumbling for the train and listening to the “suits” in the smoke preaching their new world order to brutes.

Our hands tied together, blindfolded, looking for the jihadists
we ran together through anglo-american bullets.

For this?

It requires so little to call oneself poet. It just takes nerve.
My hair didn’t grow like this by just leaving it to it’s own devices.
I took action with the scissors. And the crew you mention call me a “queer”
Let them go fuck themselves.
I blow open my heart for no one, am loftier without thinking about it than they could ever be,
walking windy avenues for my friends and family, gulping the emptiness,
deliberating for ever on working versions of indigestible prose
too tired for meaning
I jam in clubs and the meats get nervous until I walk out.

See me in the Dark Wood any day. I read esoteric Chemistry at the University of Life.
When I’m not fixing my bike, or climbing mountains, I write songs without words celebrating consciousness with apricots

Standing on this precipice looking out to sea
the sky is my true index my theme the cosmos
my aim that One-ness you told me about.

Remember?