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Author: joe

Tuesday, 06 May, 2008 - 11:32

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 57. I miss, amongst a myriad other things, his way of pricking overblown seriousness with scurrilous absurdities. And buried in his poems I find this moment of pathos, which made me chuckle in light of my recent grappling with philosophical horse-bollocks:

I found out!
For one moment I knew.
Then it passed from me
In a drunken stupor
In the Market Place Gents

Andrew Herbert Flintham (1951 - 2001)

Categories: dad, poetry, truth, booze,
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