My Friends, The Poets
Tim Wells

My local knows I write. Every proper pub has its share of characters;
the bloke shot by the Taliban, the girl who fell asleep having sex in the toilet.
We’re not the chattering classes, more gossip and dirty jokes.
Cockney, Yiddische, Gammon and Yard is the well I dip my pen in.
We like a turn of phrase, an inventive curse, when somebody says nothing
but everything. The up-themself and the bore we’ve no time for,
yet there’s a true appreciation for the form. I’m often asked about poets,
Luke Kennard, Ian Duhig, Clare Pollard… do I know them? What are they like?
The library takes a hit, and there’s a second appreciative read
when my reply is, “you’d love ‘em, they’re a scumbag just like us.”