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Poets suffer occasional delusions of angelhood and find themselves condemned to express it in the bric-a-brac tongues of the human world. Lots of them go mad.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
Writer
Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
Tongue
Tongues
Express
Condemned
Poet
Occasional
Suffering
Delusion
Find
Poets
Brac
Human
Mad
Bric
Humans
Lots
Brics
World
Suffer
Delusions

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I'll tell you something,' she said. 'I'm not sure I ever really liked him.' Adam?' I said. 'I don't blame you.' 'Not Adam,' she said, struggling to swallow a greedily chomped chunk. 'God.
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Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.
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We go to the past to lay the blame - since the past can't argue. We go to our past selves to account for our present miseries.
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Grace only exists to be fallen from.
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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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Life, like the boring drunk at the office party, keeps seeking you out, leaning on you, killing you with pointless yarns and laughing bad-breathed in your face at its own unfunny jokes.
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You think God will never forgive you, but the only God is beauty and beauty always forgives. It forgives with its infinite indifference.
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That's what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.
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That's the problem with being alive ... You've got to keep thinking of what to do.
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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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The rain's been racing earthwards as if with some religious or political fanaticism. The clouds have the look of dark internal bleeding. Surely you lot look up from Cosmo while this sort of thing's going on? Surely you take a Playstation break?
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