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Published February 02, 2012

 

We spoke to poet Rodney Blatchweaver, a writer who describes himself as “leading the tortured existence of a recluse who unfortunately is too popular to enjoy a sheltered life.”

Q: Tell us what drives you as an artist.

RB: I love that question.

Q: (After a minute or two) is that your answer?

RB: Is that your question?

Q: Is THAT your answer?

RB: That’s up to you.

Q: Thank you.

RB: Don’t mention it. The point is not to apply your own meanings to your work, after all, poetry is subjective and meaningless beyond what the reader applies. I often ask street sweepers and prostitutes to read my work so that they can reveal to me what the true meaning of the piece is.

Q: Have you ever performed your work?

RB: No, I’m rubbish at reading.

Q: What did your new work Barracuda Phosphorous* mean?

*Barracuda phosphorous

Jim jam baloney

Tastes like that new flavour of marmite

RB: According to bricklayer Tom Ludd it was, (making quote marks) “shit.”

Q: How do you respond to that?

RB: He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Rodney’s numerous publications include Bravo the Heimlich manoeuvre,Eyebrow CatastropheHolding Only One BallThings I Imagined while Sleeping with You.

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