My Tesco internet account appears to be dead now. I cancelled it a while ago in an effort to cut down outgoings. But they shut it down before I had transferred all my emails to the new address. So if you've sent anything there in the last month or so and I haven't replied, my apologies. They're lost in the air somewhere now, I'm afraid.
As are submissions to the Beatnik. Well, I don't have time to run the thing now anyway. Or, I won't until I get back into a home where I have regular access to the internet and don't have to rent computers at the Library. And the way my funds are going, I'm not going to be able to afford to move out of the Flat From Hades any time soon. In fact, I'm still in debt from putting myself there.
But you understand, out there on the fringes of the glorious world of poetry, right? You want your writing with an edge. You want your poetry to matter. Your magazines to hurt with the pain pangs of real experience. You don't want your art to be delivered to you from a comfortable tower in a university somewhere. This is real life. And it's tough and unpredictable sometimes.
But we'll work out the kinks eventually and get the Beatnik rolling again.
A fat cheque from one of you million and one poetry admirers would help.
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