They say a picture tells a thousand words so i will throw in some pictures from
THE HOPE OF THE WEST weekend (thanks Lisa)-the last weekend of the year course at the Westcountry School of Myth and Story. Wild, brilliant, eternal times. If you havn't booked a place for the next one i suggest you get to www.schoolofmyth.today ! places are being hoovered up.

Ok-i said something about a pig poem and an anthology-it got accepted! So here's a rough draft.

THE BRINY TUSK

(for the Boar and the Gut)

The briny tusk doesnt live on plates,
But curls its legacy around
its fur-bellied apostle
My gut
That powerjut of defiance
Taunting the mirror
But oddly joyful

The high squeal and the lust-salt of its flesh
seem to belong to the rain soaked God of Arcadia,
Y'know that one, clutching his grapes and leopard
born from the thigh of the Thunderbolt

He is an erotic rustle through dark grass,
A preacher waving a gun,
A midnight reprieve from a vegan jail,
His flesh but heady words round our all too tender bones.

A pig killed an Irish hero
Made sails of his guts
And rode him out into the ebony curls
of an irritable splendour and a foamy repentance

See? He is tusking my words even now.

So this is no wastrel's flab on me
but a sash of devotion
to the horny, swagger-toothed,
curl-pricked genius of
the fecundant woods


It needs a lil tweak but i'll keep snuffling on.
More soon x