I became a poet at the age of 16.

I did not intend to do it.

It was not my fault.

There was an element if truth.

But, art has its price.

Like cigarette addicts who will smoke mattress stuffing if all else fails; which is more fun than a barrel of drugged monkeys and a tin of orange rice pudding.

You could not be serious about it unless you’d made at least one suicide attempt.

In comparison with the few years I had just gone through, this was sort of like going to heaven.

New ones replaced them; The lunatic, the lover and the poet in the drab dark and wet month, lacking even snow.

I don’t understand a word of this, I thought

So it must be good.