A S H Smyth

Dear [poet’s name here], I will gladly shell out for your Collected Poems – after you’re dead.

I drop ice-cubes down the vests of those who can’t follow my pop-literary references.

…………Here lies a man who sucked all the marrow out of life ………………..– …even if (as is so often true) …he probably should not have.

A poet’s room, these days, is probably his girlfriend’s, or an upstairs corner of his mother’s house – unless, with luck, he’s made it big, or, being smart, just married into money.