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Chacers a chap,

Shakespeare’s a laugh,

Coleridge is kind if you take the corn with the chaff.

Marlowe’s a hoot,

with Austen to boot,

Poe is great if your in no need of a pun…

But can I tell you

my deepest dark

SECRET?

shhhhhhhh…..

I miss reading for FUN.


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Books

(I pay for people’s penny thoughts before I spend my life.)

… If I spend my life with my head in these …

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… will I see everything, or nothing?

its hard to tell, sometimes whether you are gazing clearly in to a world of intricacies or you are in fact staring at the dark underside of your eyelids.

Do books open me, or do they shut me?

Through them am I expanded, as if in childbirth, liberated as if governed by a just leader, made happier as if stepping into the sun of a shaded galaxy –

or am I buried in a world, in worlds, that I can forever know about, but never touch? People I can cry for, but never with. Valleys I can see, but never roam.

Is literature a wrinkling monk under a warm spiralling tree of wisdom, or is he a parent that would teach you all about the world out there, but forever bolt the door?

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