No. 77, The Wreckers’ Yard (December 2014)

Please click on link to download the issue (The Wreckers’ Yard)

Table of Contents:

01.        Cohen, Tuning In

02.        Cohen, Gone Fishing

03.        Cohen, Players

04.        Cohen, Sketches

05.        Cohen, Humans

06.        Cohen, Antidote

07.        Cohen, Five Minute Friend

08.        Cohen, Into the Eyes Through the Eyes

09.        Cohen, Piccadilly Line

10.        Cohen, In Bloom

11.        Cohen, Erections of Sap and Blood

12.        Cohen, Varying Conditions

13.        Cohen, Cupid’s Joke

14.        Cohen, Ronnie Scott’s

15.        Cohen, In London

16.        Cohen, The Little Known Foundation of Everything

17.        Cohen, Letter from Morton Feldman to John Cage

18.        Cohen, Walking Home

19.        Cohen, Hinterland of Mind

20.        Cohen, Like a Rock

21.        Cohen, Two Plates

22.        Cohen, Changeling

23.        Cohen, Ride

24.        Cohen, Atoms

25.        Cohen, Rhythm Slave

26.        Cohen, Skullscapes

27.        Cohen, The Yard Angel

28.        Cohen, Car Psyche

29.        Cohen, Atlantis

30.        Cohen, Of Descent

31.        Cohen, Wild Desire

32.        Cohen, I’m Not Scared Of Dying

33.        Cohen, Inside Out

34.        Cohen, The Wreckers’ Yard

35.        Cohen, Northern Bow, Southern Lit Arrows

36.        Biographical Note

The simplest description of these poems might be that they are the author’s protest against his own particular servitude, and his hope for a freedom that will not be his alone. They map out the topography and temporality of his day-to-day existence: days on the road, nights in pubs, at shows and at gigs – always out, away from the furnished room in Bethnal Green, returning home late to start the day again bleary and hung over. Then the brief freedom of the weekend, the pursuit of elusive women and the oblivion of intoxication, the journey, on foot, into the self. And then back in the car again for the week ahead. Month after month. Year after year. The rhythms of a working life. And running through it all are the poems, written on scraps of paper, in a notebook or into a phone, no longer hidden but read aloud to friends and strangers alike, at spoken-word events, at parties, in pubs and on the street – both interrogation of himself and communication with others, struggle with the monotony of life and embrace of its fleeting joys, the expression of the freedom he dreams of in this city of sleepless nights.

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