Desmond Swords

Des currently disguised as Flarf on the Guardian Books Blog, is writing like he hasn’t written for a long time. He is newly-spirited, motivated and deeply solemn about the things that matter. He says he obtained this new streak only when I returned from Africa. I will never know and will of course, take no credit at all for his talent and ingenuity. I am after all, nothing more than a passing ship on a strange foggy night where mystery still holds the unknown trump card.
Who knows where my ashes will finally be scattered, that last flight, the last destination and a fitful embracing ocean, fretting for my lost breath in the cold sunset? It could be anywhere in the world. I am a free spirit and everything in life is transitory.
I was first drawn to Des’s daring orginality as the love-or-hate-him OvidYeats. Everything else is history.
He writes for hours without a break. His notebooks are scattered everywhere, so too those technical poetry references. He is moved by the ancient Irish Bards. That vague legendary figures could capsule him into a vision of extraordinary bliss, belief and learning is what I find extraordinary and uplifting. How they make for kind ghosts!
When he writes, he may forget to shave, forget to sleep or eat. He is spurred on by tea and cigarettes. The kind of writers I used to observe in old films and forgot about on my way to growing up.
His prose is wonderful… so too his short stories. Yet, this creative aspect is often treated as the poor relation. However, when he does write something on his blog, I find his words to be strangely psychedelic and captivating. And I want to listen to Merseyside music all over again.
Des came to Dublin from Liverpool to seach his ancestral roots and found them. But where he thought he would stroll with his art, they cajoled him to a run. And I haven’t heard the swift motion of racing footsteps, stop since.

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