But you can't stop words, can you?
[Cosmos knows I've tried ...]
I'm in the mood for collapsing on a sandy beach.
Yes!
I'm in the mood for a friendly sea coming in to sweep me away.
As a massive favour, like.
Anyway ...
That idea or plan yesterday about 150 poems in five years with twenty classics is only good with a settled life. Cups of tea and crumpets, etc.
It's no good for the streets.
It's no good for the cliffs.
You dig?
A better idea would be to write slowly, a poem here, and a poem there, but every poem a killer.
Every poem should count if you're desperate.
[I mean, I'll have me guitar to play, too.]
Or maybe the 150 all killers, classics!
I don't know, man.
My poem? The one I started on Tuesday? Well, I've got twenty-five lines now. Only eleven to go! And I've polished it as well. It's shaping up to be a great poem. A lot will depend on the last four lines.
How great is it/will it be ... compared to Yeats? Er ... not as great as his four best poems, but certainly up there with the best of the rest.
For your information, kooks, his four best poems are:
The Second Coming
Sailing to Byzantium
Byzantium
A Prayer for my Daughter
According to me, obviously. Who else?
Anyway ...
Bye.
