I know very well I should be posting all about the triumphant exhibition of my microphonic talents and ability to juggle socking great flappy sheets of A4 with poems by yours truly on them in teeny-tiny font (why did I do that?) while being baked alive under a bewilderment of spotlights in front of an audience composed of two-thirds professional poet to one third fan-clubs (not mine).
And I will. I have some serious sarcasm to exercise on the subject. Can’t let that go to waste.
But. I’m sorry. I found yet another notebook in the pre-poetry-reading displacement activity frenzy. This one was full of poems I wrote while I was at University.
I need to exorcise some pretty head-strong Proustian rot. And THEN I’ll be able to string enough coherent sentences together to entertain, delight, infuriate and just generally make hanging around over here seem like a fine idea.
Heh heh heh.
