Nobody Knew The Iron Man

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.

Where White Is Black And Black Is White, I Won.

Fishing Provides That Connection With The Whole Living World. It Gives You The Opportunity Of Being Totally Immersed, Turning Back Into Yourself In A Good Way. A Form Of Meditation, Some Form Of Communion With Levels Of Yourself That Are Deeper Than The Ordinary Self.

Nobody Wanted Your Dance, Nobody Wanted Your Strange Glitter, Your Floundering Drowning Life And Your Effort To Save Yourself, Treading Water, Dancing The Dark Turmoil, Looking For Something To Give.