Philip Quinlan has been published variously, but some time ago. Now, he wishes to be published similarly and presently, or even at all.
Any laurels gathered 'back then' have by now withered in the pitiless summer heat of the East Saxon province of England. He must begin the world anew.
In life, he endeavours, but oftentimes fails, to do the 'right' thing. Whereas, in poetry, he strives scrupulously to avoid doing the 'done' thing. Success, he thinks, lies always in the eye of the beholder; if he knocks out a poem, it is for others to judge whether he knocked it out of the park. Some say that one is only as good as the last thing one did, in which case a special Hell awaits him.
He previously co-edited Angle Journal of Poetry in English, though said journal has sadly now departed to that bourne from which none return.
I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends
They're in my head
But will they come when I do call for them?
My transmutation is bad alchemy,
it makes a heaviness of helium:
fair is now foul; gold, lead; friend, enemy.
Your names escape me. I am prisoner.
I, being occult, have an occluded view,
am no more rhymer, no more reasoner,
no more at all. But then, no more are you.
There is ellipsis where a moon once was;
where once the sun, now anonymity.
I think I move, therefore stay still because
autonomy is now antinomy.
O, lithium, her name is cozener,
and she is falser than my aim is true.
She is no good; I cuckold you with her.
Should I be good? Would that be good for you?