I Just Don’t Get It

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When the poet acquires sufficient emotional grit to breach the blood/brain barrier, and just enough pages to warrant the use of a stapling machine, we are then encumbered by a deluge of dreary digests. This particular effort represents the poet's life work arranged chronologically, from his time as a student at London University, through California, till he settled down in Oregon. However, the focus is more on the poet's inner states -- everything from utter bleakness to insane joy -- the former no doubt accounting for the Vogon approval. Hopefully for those prone to fits you might find a little encouragement in the colourfull cover picture of chalkland weeds.