Jim Clarkson is a lucky git.
He has written poetry since he was 17 and mostly he has done this in pockets
of time in-between doing other stuff.
His is a poetry which has sprouted like a weed growing between cracks in the
pavement; a poetry which has spread like mushrooms in a cellar. Often he
has referred to it as bandit poetry, because that’s how it’s been written - in
stolen moments at 5 in the morning, or in car parks, or at the top of the stairs
waiting for children to go to sleep.
In May 2015 he got through to the Poetry Slam final with his poem, Things to
Come. There, wearing a rather smart suit, he was fortunate enough to win.
He celebrated eating crisps with his daughter listening to very loud music on
the journey home.
The poems in this collection are a bit miserable. But they are also a bit funny.
If you can, please read them at 5 in the morning, or in car parks, or at the top
of the stairs waiting for children to go to sleep.
Old Skull Face, a family friend.
