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Smoking Gun


Poems about as rugged as they get packets of grit and gristle with a soft centre. Jak
Debussy gets his hands dirty fumbling through his mind on the couch and serves up the real as is. Read him as he writes "wolfishly/all-devouring/free of guilt or conscience".

Laurence Reed

The man can wring the neck of words and draw their blood to the last drop!

J.R. Sybbud

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your beauty raises the stakes
to unreachable heights
ineluctably my words fall
you just stop them in their tracks
and I keep on plodding along
unwilling to throw in the sponge
though I know well I shall have to remain
your enemy in poetry