Great Brits in pieces or wha?

Planet. Listen to the future's bald versed reality in Winamp at Poetry World Radio

Mail me your details Pascale Petit, Moniza Alvi, Adele Geraz, Lucy Newlyn, Helen Farish, Esther Morgan, Jane Duran, Jen Hadfield, Vicki Feaver, Kate Bingham and Amy Newman - should you fancy a date with London's premier derilict in room 2, 4 Ghetto Grove, the Sin King's Estate, Camberwell, London - who is dreaming of a verbal love fest with some Guardian vixens lusting for raw sound and no-holds barred live oral action. Mind-blowing satisfaction guaranteed . Monster talent with a huge appetite for text needs unblocking.

If you promise to be my designated carers for the evening - make sure I take my tablets - and do not fumble with me by the photocopier - should I become a danger to myself and others through excessive drink and drug taking; which will be rife on the night - I will list you as my guest on the Poetry Society's pub crawl next Tuesday - when festive booze will flow and a hot flush of creative electricity crackle between Britain's soon to be pensioner greats and us young-fogey imataters, who'll be freely boring for England - all within earshot - during the PS Christmas piss up in Covent Garden.

I need desperate attractive femminists for a textual relationship; 18-99; height - average; body type - average; marital staus - available; ethnicity - any.

You must be generous, love shopping for friends, be a bird-lover, have a GSOH, solvent, interesting, artistic, willing to whip out the binoculars and get whisked off to twitch with the watchers anywhere on the planet at a phone call's notice, and - for a nice gent who'll take your mind away from those tough working days - be unvomiting and upright by my side when the annual sup-fest ends in a subterranean arch at the Punch and Judy pub, where I ply my trade as an unfunny puppet string puller with a long career in substance abuse and unemployment to draw from in my capacity as Professor of imagination, teaching trainee colleagues from the global office attempting to entertain mon compadres in the 21C play-net - how to stay bouyant when on the job gassing about the gangs fighting for ownership of poesy's flame.

You must also find the threat of physically fending off drunken advances and/or abuse from Carol Ann Duffy & Co highly arousing - who will no doubt pull her usual stunt when I out Anglo Mandy Motion the mediaevalist post-operative pink punk who salt poet Andrew Ducan in the Black Cat Camden Town later this weekend will - with fellow femminist Benny Hill's son Tobias - tout as the managing hair system floppy lock look of the cutting edge - from a container of verse offering consumers total control of last generation's next generation product, hot to bugger this bard's ars-poetica when cruising the astral plane exchanging text in his quest for consensual re-connection with a Titaness Leto to father my very own Apollo, who'll speak as a post-Simpsons age poet on behalf of all faiths praying the one real Homer vibrant with Ogma today is a bright comprehensive kid who'll shine in the Footlights like Cressida Trew or Khalid Abdalla.

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On a more personal note, I am moving out of the bardic besit into somewhere which is very quiet, and I can't wait to relocate as this place is far from ideal. It is in a dodgy area and the residents are all from the lower orders, often noisy and vaugely intimidating. One Friday evening several weeks ago a small travelling tribe were disgorged from a large van for the monster party which took place in a bedsit directly above my shoebox lodgings here in a multiple hit zone.

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The new centre of operations is three times the size of my current coffin and like a bohemian Parisian garret with central heating and sloping walls. The calm port from which to carve up a fictional empire at my own pace online in the lofty attic space where dream's are uninterrupted by an insecure front door continually being burst open by any passing smacked-up scanger at all hours of the day and night, usually the wee small ones.

The door has a busted receiver, so anyone can push it open whenever my fellow tenants forget or can not be arsed to lock the deadbolt, which is all the time - and the drip drip effect of living with unsupervised wannabee victims has frazzled my mind to a spiralling madness of continual paranoia and desperatness to escape.

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Winamp has cut out so I've set adrift Chuck Perkins from New orleans and switched to last Saturday's online and archived The Enchanted Way - RTE's poetry programme hosted by Pat Boran, who is discussing poetry and paintings with Michael Longley, Thomas MaCarthy and Katy Donovan. We have just listened to WH Auden's 1948 recording of his poem Musee de Beaux Artes - inspired by Breugel's painting.

"I stand in front of paintings with deep pleasure" says Mick, before Kate interupts

"In my 20's I had time to go trawling through galleries" and used to buy postcards of sculptures and stick them on her wall, then write in "the slumbertime before actual sleep."

But enough of state-sponsered poetic regularism. What I want to say is - that the other week the theme of the programme was Drugs and poetry, in which Tony Curtis told a great anecdote about WB Yeats. The godfather collossus, who single-handedly set about laying foundations and steering the course of Irish poetry in the English language into the highest artistic stream of public consciousness.

Silly Willy - the Coole, Dublin, Sligo, London dreamer - national ideological visionary and hashish pill popper - who weaved the incoherent jumble of his life to a full capacity. Ireland's top langauge artist. A fili of the first order and an oollamh whose "never there" is an otherworldly Tir na Og of Ireland as a triple goddess - or the three Tuatha De Dannan sisters and queens to the three kings who held power in the country a few thousand years ago - preparing to do battle with the Milesean brood of Mil's offspring and their army at Slieve Mish in county Kerry.

Yeats - when being offered to choose from a vast array of different donuts in the donut shop on O'Connell Street and asked how he liked his - said

"I prefer my donuts dipped in opium."

I prefer my opium injected by she who signed herself - last year in numerous abusive texts sent as part of a campaign to have me ousted from my usual spec on the cobbles - Caz, and made innapropriate comments about all of the above taking bungs to talk up each others books.

Oh come Kathleen my terrible pleaser who'll advance or retreat if you tease out life's music . Let us make love in this moment of hearing how alphabets rattle their answer the ear cocked like a trigger to now hears though all others fail.