Download Always die before your mother by Patrick Woodcock PDF

By Patrick Woodcock

Like an embedded journalist, Patrick Woodcock writes his poetry from front traces of expertise. From towns reeling from the trauma of siege conflict to the stifling warmth and politics of the Arabian Peninsula to the darkest corners of the South American rain wooded area, Woodcock's poems undergo witness to an international that's both instant and remote... and much extra complicated than we frequently think. In his new e-book regularly Die sooner than You mom, Woodcock takes us world wide -- recording no matter what he can. Like a photographer utilizing the changeable lenses of snapshot and idiom, he transforms all that he sees right into a searing observation on human disasters either private and non-private, these of our societies, our politics and our religions, in addition to his personal mess ups as a son.

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I sit below a corrugated metal roof that is being battered by rain — it is leaking in three places — always on us. No women will come in here except the wife of the owner. She has been pregnant since I arrived. Fifteen months and holding. Vallenato is what they play. Names of drug lords, names of enemies, plantations and dead crops. But I have left them again. Poland in the 1940s: the fire, the star expiring in mud. A Pole, a Jew, a Gypsy, a Queer? This is how it happens now. My travels have altered the game — I can arc even the purest moments into hell.

Fifteen months and holding. Vallenato is what they play. Names of drug lords, names of enemies, plantations and dead crops. But I have left them again. Poland in the 1940s: the fire, the star expiring in mud. A Pole, a Jew, a Gypsy, a Queer? This is how it happens now. My travels have altered the game — I can arc even the purest moments into hell. 60 THE TUMOUR I first saw the tumour resting on Fifth Avenue. Its host, a pleading vessel for two decades of stubbornness, godlessness and cowardice, admittedly relished the attention it drew to the nervous rattle rattle of his tin can.

It is always the other’s architecture that melts us. Never our own. What pulses within our veins isn’t some amateur’s conjecture. Flames are of no importance to the suicide dog whose eyes are stoned lament, hoarsened fog. 3. Concrete like whimpering floorboards — concrete like rusty sewing machines deafening the houses with their metallic choruses. ” Concrete can comfort the tick-ravaged pylons in the labyrinth of transport. 4. Horsemen who were robbed and never thank fan or impress an architecture that can only tell two stories.

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