I have a text in this book. You can pick up a copy at DKUK gallery in Peckham, where you can also get a haircut while looking at art. Alternatively you can order online by sending an email to



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Art Brut Bergen

Some of the heroin users who congregate in the underpass near my house are making some interesting art. I wish I could document more of it, but there are always people shooting up in front of the images and poems and I don’t want them thinking I’m spying on them.


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In memory of David Bowie

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our taxi driver is missing some fingers.
in his rear-view mirror
i’m trying to decipher
the language in which mosquitoes
have graffitied my face.

near the mountaintop
the water flows uphill.
the landscape obscured by clouds –
my self obscured by thought.

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Today my friend

Daniel Blight sent me probably the best message I’ve ever received. It read:

I saw the American writer Lynne Tillman read tonight and I though of you. She was talking   about writing for no one because she says within her small audience nobody wants to talk about her own intentions. Rather they just project something into her work that might not be there. And then she figured she might as well carry on writing even though that’s fucked up.

 And I laughed out loud and she asked me why I found it funny so I mentioned my conversations with you in front of a room full of 100 people and then we basically all started talking about you.

Only for 5 minutes though mate.

It was well funny.

She said “who is this friend” and I was like “Vince”.

One of the MA students asked me afterwards if you were a writer and where could she read your work and I said well that’s the problem innit – you can’t read it.


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