Another Poet trades on his invented and ill-defined futilitarian philosophy, and the ultimate contradiction in his writing is going to be the attempt to imbue any subject with precious substance – without substance, why read it? That would be as futile as writing it in the first place. But why write if the act itself is nothing but pointless? There is no good answer for that, and many ask it, but still, he continues to roll like an unmanned engine under power on a train track to nowhere: the texts keep coming.
The search for meaning goes on. A bonfire party in a field up in the Sherwood Forest provides the opportunity for a spoken word performance piece (he calls it spoken word because he doesn’t really know what poetry is) at a modest folky family festival. But an allergic reaction and general disinterest lead to the set being cancelled. It’s disappointing in a way because all the material about chickens and Armageddon he’d been playing with in his head that day would remain untested. But on the flip, no-one was really getting this apocalypse-of-irony material anyway, so maybe it was a relief not to die again in front of a baffled and vaguely disappointed audience. He had felt in his heart the planned final appeal for groupies of despairing and unstructured punk-folk poetry to visit his tent after the show would fall on deaf ears, and the real, substance-less reason for existing – interesting sex – would continue to elude him.