“What are we going to do with all those cats?”
Sometimes when language is song-like and rhythmic, it’s because it’s coming from a core part of yourself that’s not interested in façade. It’s an inner layer. Like a hum, a vibrational hum in the throat
she stood there, smelling sweetly of sweat, shawarma, lipstick, the several different perfumes she’d quickly sprayed on herself at Sephora, hair spray, and hot love, with its intrinsic note, it so happens, of urine.
Graham is not a poet of language so much a poet of mark and gesture. His fundamental unit of work is not the word but the expressive stroke. That is to say: he’s just another Cornish Expressionist, like his friends.
As time passed and the war in Syria and Iraq continued, I entered its life. I call it ‘life’ because war really does have a life of its own. It is a parallel universe where what goes on has little to do with the minutiae of peace. I wanted to write about this and I did.