In the Physic Garden

 Two poems by Adam Horovitz without fanfare, pieces for the season in quiet assimilation. The second brings to my mind Hughes’ Littleblood; grown so wise, grown so terrible, eating the medical earth. A pleasure to hear Adam read his work.

Is Poetry the New Rock'n'Roll?

To any headline that starts IS and ends with a question the answer is almost certainly NO.

Poetry at the Crown & Sceptre last night, a few open micers, some hits and misses, then mighty Jonny Fluffypunk.  Have you not seen him before? I hadn't. I laughed!  He set the table on a roar. 

And the Crown and Sceptre, a good, proper pub is his local.  Stroud rises in my estimation.  

After the show I made my way down to the taxi rank through dry passage of quiet streets, found two lads vomiting copiously, gloriously in a sorrowful clutch and, as they were bundled off to who knows where, had a nice chat with the girl who'd been serving them vile concoctions, with  mild concern and regret.  And to finish, on the drive home I was put right on Sadaam Hussein's record of domestic social responsibility. Oh. And the evening kicked off with tapas at  the Galgoslatino. I must get out more.