Blogging writing drinking.Thinking (despite empirical evidence to the contrary ) that if he(speaking in the third person again , warning sign) keeps at them, reality will be held in abeyance, the darkness snuffed out. Life is inexorable and the older you get the more inexorable it becomes The Devil is in the detail my comrades,the boulders keep us forever on the brink ,tis the grain of sand will tip us to the abyss. As Elbow (on my playlist) so awkwardly yet eloquently put it 'There's a hole in my neighbourhood down which of late I can't help but fall' Well that's pretty much how I feel, right now, it will change ,but what use is change? Just a different perspective of sameness, a shifting of unchanging sands. Life may be a mystery but it isn't a riddle.
Only poets read poetry , deep down ,perhaps,all they (we?) really want to read is their (our?) own.There's too much, way too much, more than anyone person could read in a lifetime,and still it's churned out inexorably( mea culpa) and for why? How many ways can it be said, what can be expressed that hasn't already been said and probably better.All meaning has been lost. Lost, not as the questionable aphorism says , in translation , but in publication. Ultimately apart from the pat on the ego what is the difference between a published and an unpublished poem? A hill of beans,gaze upon them ye mighty.What makes Shelley (beyond ego ) suppose that art is any more worthy a legacy than a kingdom made of stone or even two trunkless legs.Who do we think we are ? And I mean we for I might not get published much but I'm always thinking about it.