My poems are generated by my preoccupations at the time.
I wanted to be a sculptor, but I didn’t really enjoy
the cold and manky atmosphere of art schools.
The intense humor, innocence, sexiness and play of life,
and everybody has to eat either Chinese, Indian, Spanish
or Italian food. Well, I will anyway.
Nothing quiet ever comes out right,
no body cares about a junky's dreams,
and it is hard to turn down a smiling friend.
Anger and alienation have resulted,
and they’re fine subjects, but there are times
when you’d like to remember some of the higher points
in the history of love.
I liked you easy.
I find the annual celebration of contemporary writing,
the Xmas lists of 2019 books, quite offensive.
So many ways, fools like me, can drown.
A woman recently came up to me after a talk
and said: “I’m so glad I’m not you.”
She was appalled by my level of gloom.
But I’m sort of appalled by her resilience.
Also, her deafness to satire.