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p o e m s

d a r r a n   a n d e r s o n

a gunslinging manifesto masquerading as a poem

death to london!

the resurrectionist

we, the debris of creation



a n d y ' s   b i o . . .     by rufus t. firefly

Born under a wandering star this 23-year-old gentleman from Derry (known to his friends as Andy) is a would-be writer and a drinker of note dedicated to revelry and song. Formerly a politics student in Belfast (he left amid some "unpleasantness") he drifted back to his hometown and has spent the last year there writing. He has written articles on Gunter Grass, Brendan Behan, Richard Brautigan, Hart Crane, Ambrose Bierce, Nikolai Gogol and Miguel de Unamuno for various websites, has had poetry published in Hard Luck magazine (Warm Angel Whiskey) before it disappeared into the ether and is currently contributing to a forthcoming Scottish music and cultural magazine.

He enjoys Night of the Hunter, Bill Hicks, German expressionist and Akira Kurosawa films and listens obsessively to everything from the Beta Band to Mississippi John Hurt, dub to gothic Americana.

His literary heroes are Orwell, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Flann O Brien, Steinbeck, Camus, Tom Paulin, Sylvia Plath, Tom Waits, Primo Levi, Leonard Cohen, Ozamu Dazai, Yukio Mishima and Friedrich Nietzsche though his writing is more like a deadbeat Miroslav Holub.

Most of the time his thoughts extend only to music, food, outer space, cinema, the sea, books, alcohol, his friends and nights of hedonism. He has worked in a bowling alley, a children’s theme park, a supermarket, a warehouse, a bookshop and a library. He likes to drown his sorrows with Jack Daniels but his sorrows have learnt to surf. He records music, which the world may never hear, on a dusty four track under the name "HarderPedroHarder" sketching out an EP called Songs from the Whorehouse. He looks like a caricature of someone else: on a good day Jeff Goldblum, on a bad day Steve Buscemi. He holds ambitions to work in Japan and live in Catalonia or Northern California.

He possesses the belief that contemporary Irish, and European, fiction can be at least as vital as it’s past and requires a new movement to spearhead a renaissance (perhaps Deaddrunkdublin) instead of merely engaging in the necrophiliac worship of Joyce, Yeats, Beckett etc. His hope is to lead a charge against the emotional weaklings, the empty headed narcissists and the soulless Blairites that have characterized our times for too long.

He is currently putting the finishing touches to a collection of short stories and poems and a novel called "First We Take Jerusalem" (to be finished next year), which will either take the world by storm or send him into an early grave.

His special move is the spinning bird kick.  []

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