Me regulars will know that I've been writing a lot of poetry lately.
This is because I've got a chance to read at a poetry evening in June.
If things go well, I can read two. I've been rehearsing like billy-o!
I wouldn't really call it poetry. For a start, I can't rhyme for shit! I had to look up
in the Penguin dictionary for something to rhyme with Dog! That's how low
So really, it's just ranting. Digging out memories of romance and other emotions
from the seventies, when I was a teenager.
One poem, The Walk Home, that I've published on here, moved me unbelievably.
It was only one night with this gorgeous bloke, a dead ringer for David Essex, that
I'd completely forgotten about. Shoved away, after me Dad hit him (he was married).
Then it opens up, and I'm close to tears. What a funny old thing.
Perhaps I was in love with him after all. He bought me a packet of fags,
I treasured that for a long time.
Anyway, keep tuned in, for more drivel - I mean, poems.