Finish The Day's Writing When You Still

Poets Go Through A Very Tough Apprenticeship In The Use Of Words.

If The Garden Of Eden Really Exists It Does So Moment By Moment, Fragmented And Tough, Cropping Up Like A Fan Of Buddleia High Up In The Gutter Of A Deserted Warehouse, Or In A Heap Of Frozen Cabbages Becoming Luminous In The Reflected Light Of Roadside Snow.

I Can Remember Being In My Pram: Children Stayed In Their Prams Much Longer Then Than They Do Now. A Big Bouncy Pram With Black Covers And A Hood With Metal Clips That Could Trap Your Fingers. I Was Looking Up At My Sister Who Was Sitting On The Pram Seat, With Her Back To Me.

A Novel, In The End, Is A Container, A Shape Which You Are Trying To Pour Your Story Into.

I Would Like People To Come Into My Dreamworld And Then Choose To Stay.