03 April 2013


There is sun. The corner of the wall facing me is peeling slightly. Above the scuffing is an invitation to a wedding. My speakers are covered in a slight film of dust. I have a jar of safety pins, the sign from a cask ale that reads 'Boxing Hare 4.1%/ Maxim Brewery - Spring Chocolate Ale', an empty cup, a pack of Golden Virginia, a whiteboard marker. I am surrounded by books: Carmen Laforet, Leopoldo María Panero, Proust, Blake, Pound, and a book called 'Disremembering the Dictatorship', about Spain. Then Duchamp, Bauman, Habermas, Lukács; further up poetry books - Duffy, Lochhead, Transtromer, Bukowski, Imlah - then some Iain M. Banks: he gives himself a year to live. Imlah already gone, and Donaghy. Quite a lot of writers die a bit too young. I'm reading Agatha Christie's 'The Secret Adversary', a welcome break.  Otherwise, I am listening to Keaton Henson, a lot of hip-hop, and writing. I have a poem out in the recent edition of B O D Y. About Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman, scientology, Hollywood and the Real. You could see that here. All good.