Poetry = the unfettered encouragement of laughter-bursts and self-indulgent silence. The dismemberment of language. I mean the dismemberment of language to extend language not to bury it. Or that’s what I thought. Poetry = the ambivalence to identity. The disjointing of language. The stepping away from language in mock-ignorance. Such as ‘I never had enough education to form form. To know form.’ Poetry says ‘I am recognisably generational and have too much interest in technology, in sex, in the body, in self-reflection, in cut-at-sentences’. Poetry says ‘I am poetry, I am in a small room and more of poetry keeps coming to join me’. Poetry = a space for an unobtainable otherness to get nurtured through feigned ‘we are of the same ilk, all of us but don’t mention class, I mean ilk, I mean ink is all there should be’. But we’re not of the same ilk. Poetry would like to be layered cake, a landscape of contrasts, when there’s only a flat plain. A plain flatness. There are none-voices, there are too many this-voice, a-voice, all-voice. There is unwritten poetry that’ll never get written. The never-voices. And it stands aside from all us. In truth it does. It says ‘Come inside the small room but don’t stay too long. I am poetry, this is my small room, this is ‘our’ small room. Let me listen to your voice. Ahem, it resonates, you can stay. Ahem, it’s too crowded in here, you should go.’ Poetry = the unfettered self-indulgence of language to form bursts of encouragement from a too silent audience. Now laugh.