That's it G. to be perfectly honest, and not wishing to short hand my
blather with the current trend of  - imho - which to me, deserves a dander
and for our eyes to pass over in search of poetic prrof/s....well, maybe
not, but imagine if you will, Andrews, i Giles, Hall, and Riley,...


...in fact i'm having to stop again as it is only now in the throes of a
dive into the well of Self as the triple eye I and i; that i am conscious of
the fact, it's all blokes chatting, until you appear as the closest mind,
trapped in a bag of skin and bone, who i do not know in the material realm
and yet, connect as a fellow s/he of the M in you and me, the mind.

so, s/he is the mind, hurrah ! i knew the Yates classes did me some good
even though i resented cliff at the time, due to the stupendously large and
numerous chips and monkeys whose permanent habitat was the sad and sorry
fact of who i was back before the correct shepard came into my life with
mister T, and rescued my soul from the bottomless pit from which aislings
sing of new beginnings, the power of the light ahead, the *tingle* one gets
on reading..ooh, i dunno, erm, the very talented H, who i shall say no more
on at this juncture, due to having a whole set of new chips and monkeys to
play with in the Concrete Poetry HQ here in a dublin attic, mountains to the
south as i gaze out of the large plate glass double glazing of my penthouse
apartment, wondering if i should just hurl myself out and end it all now my
rivals have suddenly got interesting on the page (not).

But you get the picture, the slips and accidents which Bernstein refers to
as the key to understanding Art, being the individuals right to *fail* on an
unconditional basis, in order to find our feet and the voice they walk to
whatever level of competence and grace when skating, or not. But the
important thing here, is the process, being open ended, the speculative
discourse Sheppard (note two pp) so successfully enshrines right at the
heart of his own practice as facilitator to the kind of failure i am trying
to wrestle into coherence, for nothing more than being an addict to what
Wilde termed as (being the only state an irish writer could hope to achieve)
 *exquisite failure*.

Before Edward Carson quizzed him on the Birmingham gentlemen and his own 45
yrs or so of continual psychic ascent, suddenly ended, in a swift fall which
s/he can present as being a natural measure, in a simple binary way, which
the human body at least, is the perfect flesh example. 

The mind, where that comes from, who knows, maybe we as individuals, each
and every one of us, perhaps are mind is more s/he than gender specific.

~

But all this is not pertinent to the original intention i held when
beginning to type. The above being nought but a slip of accidence from the
word go, the very source and soul of poetic process, the holding up of a
gaffe and instead of letting that put us off, learning in a safe area where
the sneers and jeers are absent and if we fall it is ok, we are not silently
coerced by a few straight faced unhappy people not wanting to see us shine
because of their chips and monkeys; into remaining static and feeling thick,
as the intentional state fakers have the sad gits trapped in their webs of
cash and greed getting ripped off and learning little, schools of unhappy
poets, churned out by megalomaniac bores at war with the real hippies just
happy and minding their own biz, all this..



...avoided by learning under the premier Concrete poet at play in the town
of my birth and rearing, and i think today may be one of the few (if ever)
times i actually spelled Bob's name right, and it was only when i googled i
saw the main way is Shepherd, and this synthesised with another strand whose
motif was a sense of triplicate, and of which s/he has removed firther into
the shadows in which i seek to purchase on the slippery P of what it is we
are here for, and all this, not even getting to the original point i wanted
to make..


...that we the people chatting thus far till you came G, (all effin blokes)
display all the signs of not really knowing having that great a grammar grip
and thus explains the lack of fizz and definitive answer delivered with the
authority only someone like..ooh, i dunno, Me ! nah, Joe Duffy on RTE in the
afternoon, who sorts the nation out by listening and demonstrating clear
intelligence, with only a few *ah, no, ah that's nice, go away, did she,
gah, yer well* and gets hundreds of G's for it. So if the Joe Duffy of the
academic grammar world sired by a woman with the mind of a Hawkins, came and
delivered the final say, then the thread would not be still blowing and
Live, the essential force of wonderment, not satiated by the fullest proof,
and thus, all this, an add on and slip from the off, before i began...


as the thing i wanted to say, the chaps going for the tenor in which the
correct *be* as noun WS referred to, they may all be mistaken, and unable to
work out who knows most, withdraw a few lines down and..who knows, but what
i am trying to get at, is the Choice of how to handle the *failure* in order
to rise by our mistakes and not be frozen and blocked into unhappiness and
be moaning about poetry, when the truth surely is, Poetry is effin great,
and if one is having stresses with the Art, well, go work for free for any
number of publisher and surrenbder yr soul, mind and body and get flogged
for a few yrs pretending to be happy and a part of some great big publishing
plan with all the best poets, and 


like yah, like s/he's won this, X got that and hey, hey, don't they
sound..hmm, yeah, the new dispensation in the Corporate poetry world forgot
one think, Poetry in all its majesty is not something in natural synch with
appearing on shelves in supermarkets, every ingrediant on the pack, fully
cimpliant with the 90% majority who have traditionally controlled the
business of Print, whilst poetry only appears in Poeple, not executive
poetry directors in resident of an Institute of idiotic Eliot like Leavis
manques having a laugh at the thick kids who don't get on because of the
chips they have as Poetry Managers of the galactic my arse, say..


Anyway, what i am trying to say is, poetry just is and nobody owns it, least
of all they who would seek to with most base of intentions, to make money
from it on a large scale, as i hope to one day, when i get a job with M 'n
N, the strategies of which are now due to delver all their poets into my new
stable at the back of the Guinness on Thomas Street, where i hope to open an
artists commune, funded by millionaire publishers, who i will convince to
fall in with me at Ledbury, where i am to appear reciting and generally,
seeking out they who have crossed my life in print here at HQ, and settling
matters, Live.

Then, then they will come and discover me, confer me with the open mic
winner complimentary pint and envelope with the poems, passed over to me, A
' S deciding then, in that moment after the recital of LROVSE, will collapse
begging for editorial advice in their own work, yah, yah, it will happen!!!


and if not, whose arsed who dreams s/he?