The Bogholes Might Be Atlantic Seepage. The

Once Off The Bush The Fruit Fermented, The Sweet Flesh Would Turn Sour. I Always Felt Like Crying. It Wasn't Fair That All The Lovely Canfuls Smelt Of Rot. Each Year I Hoped They'd Keep, Knew They Would Not. -blackberry Picking

I've Nothing Against The Queen Personally: I Had Lunch At The Palace Once Upon A Time.

The Main Thing Is To Write For The Joy Of It. Cultivate A Work-lust That Imagines Its Haven Like Your Hands At Night Dreaming The Sun In The Sunspot Of A Breast. You Are Fasted Now, Light-headed, Dangerous. Take Off From Here.

I Might Enjoy Being An Albatross, Being Able To Glide For Days And Daydream For Hundreds Of Miles Along The Thermals. And Then Being Able To Hang Like An Affliction Round Some People's Necks.

Between My Finger And My Thumb The Squat Pen Rests; Snug As A Gun. ~from The Poem "digging