Show Him Every Dawn & Read To

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

The Jaws' Hooked Clamp And Fangs Not To Be Changed At This Date; A Life Subdued To Its Instrument.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?