I haven't finished with the fucking dog yet.
Blanc et Noir, the dog promised the photographer a copy of the book once it was published.
'It never happened, ' said the photographer, 'I had to purchase it myself.'
At the height of the negotiation, when Gartland received the cash from me, he was saying he'd take care of the formatting and kindling.
'Got it covered here, I'll take care of that.'
Talk is fucking cheap.
I like fucking sheep.
I think I'm getting in deep,
I'm about to weep.
John Lester Gartland is morally bankrupt.
You get the feeling he's eaten a thesaurus and has indigestion.
Sometimes his poems are solid, other times they are loose.
'Let's not talk about poetry, reminds me of my poo texture.'
This guy gives poets a bad reputation.
Listen, if he was pulling this shit off in his 20's, almost forgivable.
But as the man enters his early eighties, he's still trawling, insulting, thieving, lying, and deluding himself.
Admit it, not even Ireland would take you back.
Now that's saying something.
