Since I moved into my new flat I have written about sixty pages of journal scribbles, subjects ranging from the merits of underground poetry to the decline of Western civilisation (trust me, it's happening!) But so far, not much actual publishable poetry.
I wonder if, someday, some fool publisher with too much money and no sense will publish the reams and reams of personal writing I've done in those little A5 books. I don't know whether it'd be a good thing or a bad one, given the rubbish I pour into them.
Ginsberg wrote his private journals with a public audience looking over his shoulder. You can tell he meant them for publication, especially the later ones. Me, I just sit with pen in hand (and bottle between knees), and let fly.
And even when I'm berating the follies of modern man the only person who ends up looking like an idiot is me. Sweet irony, ah!
When I move house I have to lug huge boxes of those little books along with me.