Hello! Welcome to my shed. Please do come in and make yourself at home. Pull up a flowerpot. Or a worn tyre. Or a shabby piano stool. Move that antique Flymo to one side. And that one, too. My shed is in need of a clear-out but it will do for now.
Now, you’re all here because you’ve done something remarkable. Each of you – presumably of your own free will – has surrendered some of your hard-earned / indolently-inherited / fortuitously-found / illegally-obtained (please delete as appropriate) money to fund a collection of poems written by me. Not only is that an act of supreme lunacy but also one of staggering generosity and I would like to thank you all for providing such wonderful support for this project. THANK YOU!
I had imagined that I would be waging a fatigued and increasingly grizzled marketing campaign for three months to try and get this project off the ground but amazingly, thanks to all of your sterling (as well as euro-ed and dollar-ed) efforts, THE BOOK IS NOW FULLY FUNDED AND IS ACTUALLY GOING TO HAPPEN!
I suspect there has not been a poet so happy since John Betjeman discovered Philip Larkin’s secret stash of pornography hidden behind his stack of Sidney Bechet records.
Although the book is now funded, anything you can do to spread the word of the book amongst friends, family and funghi would be really appreciated. Pledging remains open, whether that’s for a travel-friendly ebook or a personalized poem and most things in between.
Now one of the things I’ve been asked most frequently over the last few days is “Brian, what does your shed look like?” The answer to that question is really up to you. Think less "Sherlock’s mind palace”, think more "Brian’s brain shed”.
But, of course, there are many different types of shed, including:
The Nine O’Clock Water Shed
The new solution
for your ablutions:
enjoy your showers
amongst the flowers.
A shed in which to wash your hair.
A shed in which to loudly swear.
A shed in which you can be nude.
A shed in which to be quite rude.
A shed with 18+ permissions.
A shed to shed your inhibitions.
And, of course, there is:
The Blood Shed
Of the Blood Shed,
well, enough said.
Anyway, over the coming weeks I’ll be updating you on where things have got to – but also asking for YOUR HELP if I may. I’m going to need your advice to get this book done; which poems to include, what’s the best version of a certain poem, what words rhyme with orange, what’s a five-syllable word beginning with G that best describes the sensation of being in a strange town and not quite knowing whether you're standing at the right bus stop. That kind of thing.
I have been dreaming most nights about the pledges; dark, disturbed dreams which question your intentions for being here with me. I shall leave you with this poem.
Pledge of Darkness
She had only pledged
so she could access his shed
and slip in there
when he was in bed.
There, amongst the broken flymos,
cracked flowerpots,
and abandoned garden gnoems,
she found his hidden stash
of poems.
She watched the flames dance
across the pages;
she had dreamt of doing this
for ages.
She did not see the act
as being cruel or heartless.
The fire lit up the pale night sky
but Brian woke to darkness.
Brian
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