These tales, burnt from despair and sorrow, are filled with dust and weariness.
They recently bowled me over with some words by Lawrence Welsh.
If you take a seat at this dude’s campfire, you may hear someone say:
“Lawrence Welsh doesn’t pen and ink his poems, he uses his fingernails and martyrs blood. He’s a sleeping insomniac with both eyes open. Watch out for these poems, for they are made with a passionate, witty, indomitable dynamite. Read what’s in this book before it explodes in your hands.”
The intro to his new collection Carney Takedown includes:
“One gets the feeling that the poet walked into the desert, abandoned his clothes, then his skin, and scratched absentmindedly at his musculature as he wrote.”
You can read some of his words at Outlaw Poetry.
Who are you digging these days?