Well o.k, I suppose the title exploits artistic licence at little, but so what, I really wanted as many readers as possible to read the following................

I really just needed to express my thanks to those members of this site that have written the things they have about my work, these few, well intentioned comments, I feel, have now closed a very important door for me at the same time as opening yet another.
I had long since resigned myself  that perhaps I would never get the last one shut!

I believe that the reviewers could not have known the truth depth and relevance of  their remarks and I thought I should tell them, without hesitation, just a little of exactly why it means so much.

My writing - work - poetry - effort, whatever you call it, originates solely from a lifetime of finding myself in places and situations that, given the choice, I would rather not have been or seen.

At the time of many of the later events I was to often find myself  in the company of only three things; my peculiar sense of humour, the mental images of my Children and, for whenever these two were absent, my ability to find the mental strength and means available to write down the impact of these things upon my developing and disintegrating mind.

Consequently I can claim to have written poetry in pen, pencil, sand, mud, blood, shaving cream, semolina, tears and shit.
I am sure I have left things out from the above list, but now I can enjoy the good fortune and the joy of owning a beautifully pointed pencil or when lazy, a beautifully unpointed keyboard.

The things that I have written mostly about, unfortunately,  tell of real events, sometimes the characters have been changed to protect them as victims, but my writing will never harness fear of recrimination from the perpetrators of these tales of human depravity, I fear them no longer.

I knew from the very first things that I ever laid down, that there were only two possible consequences to writing them down as they happened, firstly, that the action of focusing my mind on this task would totally blot out reality for a short time, and secondly, that my writing was then, often the only thing preventing me from taking my own life or indeed someone elses.
I recall with DVD clarity, one evening many years ago, having spent all but 2p of my worldly finances upon 3 joints of marijuana and 9 fast pints, floating, cushion soft, head down towards the all embracing, all inviting, one last french kiss of the tarmacadem, impatiently waiting 60 feet below, at the tragedy stained foot of Scarboro's notorious valley bridge.

 The policeman who had just locked himself in a bearhug grip around both legs just above the ankles, at the point in time where they had already launched from the parapet, was now himself completely at the mercy of the single strand of barbed wire that squealed under the combined weight of both of us and threatened to pack it all in for the night, and the man who eventually saved my life at great risk to his own immediately really wished that he could be anywhere, doing anything else other than hanging on to both of us against all reasonable odds 
I just recall quietly thinking, whilst we both said nothing, swaying for an eternity, round and round, in little arcs in the breeze, how much better it would have been if I'd have just gone and found some shit to write in.

Getting back to the point...One other feature of the things that I have written about was the vague and distant hope that one day just one person, may just understand, relate to or even share just one sentiment or feeling expressed within my writing, that in some way, some day, someone might just benefit from the experiences that befell my life and the angels versus the devils combination that would apparently become one life's mission.  

I  therefore salute those who have been so kind about my work, it has truly overwhelmed me and has actually made just a few of even those darker times just that little bit lighter and strangely enough perhaps even a little bit worthwhile!

The kind of poetry that I like is poetry that is heartfelt, any of it, in any amount, I believe that without holding the tickets to certain worlds, obtained through visiting all sorts of weird, wonderful and crushing ticket booths in life, then you plain and simply just can't write certain stuff. I have read a great deal of great writing, a lot of it poured out from the hearts of broken children I have known, and all, without exception have had a pen in one hand and a vice-like grip on life's tickets in the other, none of us want to lose one and have to earn it yet again. Once was always going to be enough!              

I have also read a great deal of other work by 'ticketholders' on this site, in fact some of the work is uncanny in a million and one ways. I look forward to reading lots and lots more of the same by these true poets and hope to witness the birth of many new ones here on this amazing site.

In an effort to practice what I preach I will now try to devote just one more minute, just 60 seconds, as a mark of respect to the author for allowing me into their world, to review their work whenever I read it, even if to only to say that a certain piece didn't press my buttons. I sincerely hope that in doing so, whoever holds the pen will remove it out from the inkwell, wipe it on the rim and put it straight back nibdown onto whatever they can find to write on.

Thank you for taking the time to read this diatribe, now go and review an author you like or even one who sits waiting to be re-read in your bookshelf, it might just mean more to them than you can imagine!

p.s: Don't try writing in hot urine on cold snow where there's no trees - you might just be stood in the middle of a lake!

Neil Marsden