Last
night’s reading material was King Lear
which, I just remembered, was weakly punned by Morrissey for King Leer, a track from his transitional
1991 album, Kill Uncle.
Tonight,
I am burying my head in Hamlet. I wrote a manic, slightly unsuccessful seven-minute
adaptation for a comic revue ten years ago. I resurrected and rewrote it three
years ago for a different comic revue; it worked far better the second time
round.
Madness
and the ghost of my father have preoccupied my thoughts the last few days,
which may explain a subconscious decision to return to these plays, instead of finishing
off the latest Terry Pratchett, or re-re-re-re-reading Michael Symmons Roberts’
brand new collection, Drysalter. If
the prospect of discovering what’s inside poems with such titles as Hymn to a Rollercoaster, A Plate for a Face,
What the Night Told Me, and The Fortune-Telling Rabbits of Istanbul doesn’t
have you doing whatever it is you do when you are in a frenzy of anticipation...
well, then.
Who’s there?
No comments:
Post a Comment