Never one to be troubled by the chronology of cultural fads, poet Dennis Beerpint is trying to reinvent himself as a beatnik. He has been seen about town sporting a goatee beard and a jet black polo neck sweater. A concerned Beerpint-watcher suspects a copy of Allen Ginsbergâ€™s Howl may have fallen into his hands.
â€œKnowing Dennis Beerpint,â€ writes my correspondent, â€œHis version of Howl will probably be called Bleat or Oooh, Missus!â€
This seems a bit harsh to me. Though Beerpint can be incorrigibly twee, and often fatuous, at its best his work has reduced me to a sincerely sobbing heap of woebane. I am thinking of such pieces as Lines Upon The Collision Of A Little Peewit With A Hot Air Balloon, a poem I consider to be the finest peewit-related poem of the last millennium. It will be interesting to see where he goes in his new beatnik persona, daddy-o. Well, perhaps not interesting, but at the very least mildly diverting in a Beerpinty way for those of us who follow his doings.