Language

Language
I have an embarrassing little secret. I was, not as far as I know,a teenage werewolf, but, even worse, a teenage poet. Images of blood, death and unrequited love - none of which I knew the least thing about - spilled from my fountain pen , starkly Gothic in Stephens best purple ink. I'd discovered Philip Larkin, Roger McGough and the Beat Poets, so McGough's Merseyside mixed hideously with Greg Corso's Chicago to produce an oeuvre which still exists somewhere in a cardboard carton. And I had great fun producing it.
That was back in the sixties and seventies. Today, with the ne…