PREFACE TO THE 2015 EDITION In 1983 Ann Wainwright of Poetic Licence suggested I do a chapbook of my poems and lyrics. I was bogged down in academia, writing my BA thesis and revising for exams at the time. We’d been involved poetically since I arrived on Teesside 1980, organising poetry venues etc. I was a lyricist, songwriter and performance poet and by the time I graduated, summer 83, I was ready to ‘Escape’ academia and return to my creative roots.

The title was inspired by the above poster and I put the book together in a fanzine format which I’ve more or less preserved here. It was published in 1984, by the Poetic Licence Collective, and thanks to Ann Wainwright, it became a popular item on the Small Press Scene. Poems from the book, or new poems and adverts and reviews for it appeared in magazines in the UK and abroad including Gypsy, TOP, Folio, Poetic Licence, Poetry of Love, Bardonni, First Time, Stomp, City Voices, Unemployed Worker, Hobo (Coventry Music and Arts Magazine), Voice of the North, Outlet. Love Poetry, Castalians, Evening Gazette Middlesbrough, Parallel. First edition 1984. Revised and reprinted 1985 and 1987 and now reformulated for PDf in 2015. This version will include links to some audio / musical versions. One of many reviews from 1984 ­ Liila Szinai ­ Poetry of Love 1984 “ I would thoroughly recommend this book in which poetry ‘escapes’ from the shackles of its usual subject matter to deal with the real issues that face us in our world ­ unemployment, the position of women ­ but with strength, compassion and humour.”

Long ago, deep in the past, before the first epic poem was composed. Before Chaucer spread wicked tales about those nice people in Canterbury. Before Andrew Marvell had trouble making it with that ‘Coy Mistress’. Before Donne linked our souls to ‘twin­stiff compasses’that move in relation to each other. Before Shakespeare made ‘Much ado about nothing’ and Wordsworth got high on those magic daffodils! Before Shelley peeled ‘the Masques of Anarchy’. Before, before it all, in the beginning, there was an ancient race known as ‘The Poets’. A race rich in soul power, who spread about the earth, and to whom poetry was more a way of life than an abstracted gift and privilege in the hierarchy of ‘excellence’, headed by ‘God, King and Country’. ‘The Poets’ were beaten back by agents of Plato’s ‘Philosopher Kings’ at the dawn of civilisation. Thinking poetry likely to corrupt, they made it a privilege of well­behaved dignitaries who could be trusted to uphold dominant culture. ‘The Poets’ were confined to a lonely colony in the back of beyond. In the past, several have escaped and were burnt as dangerous heretics. Now again, one of them has escaped...his name Trev Teasdel. You are now reading his book. Your mind will slowly become polluted as you turn the pages. You will not notice the change, but others will. There is no turning back. You have taken the first bite, and like Eve, before you, you are condemned. YOU ARE THE VICTIM OF THE ESCAPED POET. The only thing you can do now is to lie back and enjoy it. (You may even care to read this book at the same time!)

POEMS ARE ONLY HUMAN (Published in Gypsy (USA and Germany) alongside Henry Miller and Middlesbrough Evening Gazette.)

One day Poetry jumped down from the shelf, tore itself free from the books it was contained in, formed itself into a Union called ‘Poetry alive’, burst asunder into poetry readings and sub­machine­gunned the straight jackets of poetry books. Led the hostage poems out with bayonets pointing in the back of their couplets, and led them into the Real Ale lecture rooms, where the poems were taught the rudiments of drinking by Durham Miners. And, mixing their metaphors, tripping over each other’s lines and undoing their zips and playing with their hidden meanings, proceeded to run amok in the late­night streets. In the dormitory of this book, you will find poems of dubious character. If you hear the occasional ‘hic’ or see the spew stain on the sheets of this book, pay it no heed. The poems are only human afterall and as such, we should make allowances.

THIS STRANGE AFFINITY To say “I want you” would only be half the truth, Not even that I doubt. For who can explain the magic of this strange affinity, whose bonds knot tighter together on every meeting. What is this feeling that holds me by the throat, that cuts painfully when you are not around? What is this need i have for you, that when without you, leaves me helpless, like a baby in the bulrushes? I need you to give myself to; you are an extension of me. You need me to give yourself to; I am an extension of you. And I love this strange affinity, which commands all my actions. You are a world within my world, A shelter from the pangs of troubled thoughts. Where the soft, silvery, whispering waters, soothe the cracked, dry earth below. And the more you deny the feeling the stronger it becomes. So who can explain the magic of this strange affinity, which diverts me from purpose? Which bilks the potholes of my road? Which lends a crutch to a limping life? And I love this strange affinity. I’m addicted to this strange affinity.

Listen to this acoustic Song Demo on Vimeo Here

Here the song on Vimeo here https://vimeo.com/138920424

Alone A figure draped in sadness, sorrows all alone. A ragged scarecrow cladded clown All upon his own. In blue embroidered skintight loner jeans, listens to his mental drone, pulsing senseless rhythms down. A silent suffering soul. Always been alone Alone, against the tongues of torment. Always seems flown, flown against the tides of trials. Stood alone, contemplating the him he sees. is he just a perfect image in a figment of his own imagination? The body, cased in clothes craves freedom. Talk, always clawing, tearing people down. His love, soaring high, swooping low, never nesting. Cries, “I am the loner, I am the loner” A perfect image in a figment of his own imagination.

FLOWERS OF THE WAYSIDE As I pass the streets lined with tears of unexpressed souls Rows of tins of compressed talents chained in their folds Lines of ‘I could’ve been if I tried, but didn’t pursue my goals’ Chains of the ‘same as the day before and day before that’ plastic moulds Boxes of ‘shun the new, it’ll be our ruin, stick to the beaten path’ holes’ Chorus I just put my face to my hands My fear for to hide That I might yet become another Flower of the Wayside. Their bins are full of screwed up dreams from the morning of their youth and yes they still have their dreams in the straightjacket of their lives. They follow convention down the steps; in his drunken waltz To fall into the waters deep, to find they cannot swim; to find they cannot think. They’re too busy not being busy trying to be themselves, They’ve been hung up upon society allocated shelves. They pay homage to the idle with numerals on his face And as his arms rotate, they start their diurnal chase Machines I once thought were extensions of men’s arms But men have just become extensions of machines, Turmoiling in their cogwheel confusion While I stage my independence – the Waterbearer’s Revolution.