A doughty champion of his local culture.(Poet Tom Hubbard)Your performance at the city hall was soooooooooo good! Christoph thought it was excellent! (Carolyn)




Spinning and reeling,

days slipped by the window,

thudding clouds.

We rock in candlelight,

piano glows.

Sun’s sunk into the red carpet,

blood in the skin of the wine,

juicy dregs of another spilt day.

Old friends they have come

through this infernal revolving door

and gone on to evolve

long faces in the mist.

New vistas swing

through the old market

to make the lifelight

shine in our hearts.

Dragging on the stubs of years,

blowing out memory’s vague smoke.

Wet cobbles

glint with the dreams of fish,

flashing girls stream by

on darting bikes.

The crippled sunset

of war years,

the modern politics of fear.

Throw me another cigar

hand over your gear,

let us meet

in socialist song.

Your fleeting poetry

is a scarf tossed

round my neck.

My handsome northern mate,

I am going Dutch tonight.

That Mr Piano Man

flies across the bar

to catch an A Train again

for the fresh morning,

love’s daybreak.

My darling,

kiss my poet's lips,

let us greet the warm flesh

of Groningen





Upon The Mathematics Of The Breath And The Way

I was going to begin this with a little rundown on the female but since the smoke on the local battlefront has cleared a bit I will relent, but there are 50,000 men in this nation who must sleep on their bellies for fear of loosing their parts to women with wild- glazed eyes and knives. Brothers and sisters, I am 52 and there is a trail of females behind me, enough for 5 men's lives. Some of the ladies have claimed that I have betrayed them for drink; well, I'd like to see any man stick his pecker into a fifth of whiskey. Of course, you can get your tongue in there but the bottle doesn't respond. Well, haha among the trumpets, let's get back to the word.

The word. I'm on the way to the track, opening day at Hollywood Park, but I'll tell you about the word. To get the word down proper, that takes courage, seeing the form, living the life, and getting it into the line. Hemingway takes his critical blows now from people who can't write. There are hundreds of thousands of people who think they can write. They are the critics, the belly-achers and the mockers. To point to a good writer and call him a hunk of shit helps satisfy their loss as creators, and the better a man gets the more he is envied and., in turn, hated. You ought to hear them razz and demean Pincay and Shoemaker, two of the greatest jocks ever to steer a horse. There's a little man outside our local tracks who sells newspapers and he says, "Get your paper, get your info on Shoemaker the Faker." Here he is calling a man who has ridden more winners than any other jock alive (and he's still riding and riding well) and here's this newspaper guy selling papers for a dime and calling the Shoe a fraud. The Shoe is a millionaire, not that that's important, but he did get it with his talent and he could buy this guy's newspapers, all of them, rest of this guy's life and into a half dozen eternities. Hemingway too, gets the sneers from the newspaper boys and girls of writing. They didn't like his exit. I thought his exit was quite fine. He created his own mercy killing. And he created some writing. Some of it depended too much on style but it was a style he broke through with; a style that ruined thousands of writers who attempted to use any portion of it. Once a style is evolved it is thought of as a simple thing, but style not only evolves through a method, it evolves through feeling, it is like laying a brush to canvas in a certain way and if you're not living along the path of power and flow, style vanishes. Hemingway's style did tend to vanish toward the end, progressively, but that's because he let down his guard and let people do things to him. But he gave us more than plenty. There is a minor poet I know who came over the other night. He is a learned man, and clever, he lets the ladies support him so you know he's good at something. He is a very powerful figure of a man growing soft around the edges, looks quite literary and carries these black notebooks around with him and he reads to you from them. This boy told me the other night, "Bukowski, I can write like you but you can't write like me." I didn't answer him because he needs his self-glory, but really, he only thinks he can write like me. Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way, or even to say a simple thing in a simpler way. Oh, by the way, if you want to get one angle on a minor writer, it is one who throws a party or gets one thrown for him when his book comes out.

Hemingway studied the bullfights for form and meaning and courage and failure and the way. I go to boxing matches and attend horse races for the same reason. There is a feeling at the wrists and the shoulders and the temples. There is a manner of watching and recording that grows into the line and the form and the act and the fact and the flower, and the dog walking and the dirty panties under the bed, and the sound of the typewriter as you're sitting there, that's the big sound, the biggest sound in the world, when you're getting it down in your way, the right way, and no beautiful woman counts before it and nothing that you could paint or sculpt counts before it; it is the final art, this writing down of the word, and the reason for valor is all there, it is the finest gamble ever arranged and not many win.

Somebody asked me, "Bukowski, if you taught a course in writing what would you ask them to do?" I answered, "I'd send them all to the racetrack and force them to bet $5 on each race." This ass thought I was joking. The human race is very good at treachery and cheating and modifying a position. What people who want to be writers need is to be put in an area that they cannot manuever out of by weak and dirty play. This is why groups of people at parties are so disgusting: all their envy and smallness and trickery surfaces. If you want to find out who your friends are you can do two things: invite them to a party or go to jail. You will soon find that you don't have any friends.

If you think I am wandering here, hold your tits or your balls or hold somebody else's. Everything fits here.

And since I must presume (I haven't seen any of it) that I am being honored and criticized in this issue I should say something about the little magazines, although I might have said some of it elsewhere? - at least over a row of beer bottles. Little magazines are useless perpetuaters of useless talent. Back in the 20's and 30's there was not an abundance of littles. A little magazine was an event, not a calamity. One could trace the names from the littles and up through literary history; I mean, they began there and they went up, they became. They became books, novels, things. Now most little magazine people begin little and remain little. There are always exceptions. For instance, I remember first reading Truman Capote in a little named Decade, and I thought here is a man with some briskness, style and fairly original energy. But basically, like it or not, the large slick magazines print a much higher level of work than the littles - and most especially in prose. Every jackass in America pumps out countless and ineffectual poems. And a large number of them are published in the littles. Tra la la, another edition. Give us a grant, see what we are doing! I receive countless little magazines through the mail, unsolicited, un-asked for. I flip through them. Arid vast nothingness. I think that the miracle of our times is that so many people can write down so many words that mean absolutely nothing. Try it sometime. It's almost impossible to write down words that mean absolutely nothing, but they can do it, and they do it continually and relentlessly. I put out 3 issues of a little, Laugh Literary and Man the Humping Guns. The material received was so totally inept that the other editor and myself were forced to write most of the poems. He'd write the first half of one poem, then I'd finish it. Then I'd go the first half of another and he'd finish it. Then we'd sit around and get to the names: "Let's see, whatta we gonna call this cocksucker?"

And with the discovery of the mimeo machine everybody became an editor, all with great flair, very little expense and no results at all. Ole was an early exception and I might grant you one or two other exceptions if you corner me with the facts. As per the better printed (non-mimeo) mags one must grant The Wormwood Review (one-half hundred issues now) as the outstanding work of our time in that area. Quietly and without weeping or ranting or bitching or quitting or pausing, or without writing braggodoccio letters (as most do) about being arrested for driving drunk on a bicycle in Pacific Palisades or corn-holing one of the National Endowment for the Arts editors in a Portland hotel room, Malone has simply gone on and on and compiled an exact and lively talent, issue after issue after issue. Malone lets his issues speak for themselves and remains invisible. You won't find him beating on your door one night with a huge jug of cheap port wine saying, "Hey, I'm Marvin Malone, I printed your poem Catshit in a Bird's Nest in my last issue. I think I'm gonna kick me some ass. Ya got anything for me to fuck around here?"

A vast grinding lonely hearts club of no-talents, that's what the littles have evolved to, with the editors a worse breed than the writers. If you are a writer seriously interested in creating an art instead of a foolishness, then there are, at any moment, a few littles to submit to, where the editing is professional instead of personal. I haven't read the mag that this piece is submitted to but I would suggest, along with Wormwood, as decent arenas: The New York Quarterly, Event, Second Aeon, Joe Dimaggio, Second Coming, The Little Magazine and Hearse.

"You're supposed to be a writer," she says, "if you put all the energy into writing that you put into the racetrack you'd be great." I think of something Wallace Stevens once said, "Success as the result of industry is a peasant's ideal." Or if he didn't say that he said something close to that. The writing arrives when it wants to. There is nothing you can do about it. You can't squeeze more writing out of the living than is there. Any attempt to do so creates a panic in the soul, diffuses and jars the line. There are stories that Hemingway would get up early in the morning and have all his work done at noon, but though I never met him personally I feel as if Hemingway were an alcoholic who wanted to get his work out of the way so he could get drunk.

What I have seen evolve in the littles with most new and fresh talent is an interesting first splash. I think, ah, here's finally one. Maybe we have something now. But the same mechanism begins over and over again. The fresh new talent, having splashed, begins to appear everywhere. He sleeps and bathes with the god damned typewriter and it's running all the time. His name is in every mimeo from Maine to Mexico and the work grows weaker and weaker and weaker and continues to appear. Somebody gets a book out for him (or her) and then they are reading at your local university. They read the 6 or 7 good early poems and all the bad ones. Then you have another little magazine "name". But what has happened is that instead of trying to create the poem they try for as many little mag appearances in as many little magazines as possible. It becomes a contest of publication rather than creation. This diffusion of talent usually occurs among writers in their twenties who don't have enough experience, who don't have enough meat to pick off the bone. You can't write without living and writing all the time is not living. Nor does drinking create a writer or brawling create a writer, and although I've done plenty of both, it's merely a fallacy and a sick romanticism to assume that these actions will make a better writer of one. Of course, there are times when you have to fight and times when you have to drink, but these times are really anti-creative and there's nothing you can do about them.

Writing, finally, even becomes work especially if you are trying to pay the rent and child support with it. But it is the finest work and the only work, and it's a work that boosts your ability to live and your ability to live pays you back with your ability to create. One feeds the other, it is all very magic. I quit a very dull job at the age of 50 (twas said I had security for life, ah!) and I sat down in front of the typewriter. There's no better way. There are moments of total flaming hell when you feel as if you're going mad; there are moments, days, weeks of no word, no sound, as if it had all vanished. Then it arrives and you sit smoking, pounding, pounding, it roars and roars. You can get up at noon, you can work until 3 a.m. Some people will bother you. They will not understand what you are trying to do. They will knock on your door and sit in a chair and eat up your hours while giving you nothing. When too many nothing people arrive and keep arriving you must be cruel to them for they are being cruel to you. You must run their asses out on the street. There are some people who pay their way, they bring their own energy and their own light but most of the others are useless both to you and to themselves. It is not being humane to tolerate the dead, it only increases their deadness and they always leave plenty of it with you after they are gone. And then, of course, there are the ladies. The ladies would rather go to bed with a poet than anything, even a German police dog, though I knew one lady who took very much delight in claiming she had fucked one President Kennedy. I had no way of knowing. So, if you're a good poet, I'd suggest that you learn to be a good lover too, this is a creative act in itself, being a good lover, so learn how. Learn how to do it very well because if you're a good poet you're going to get many opportunities, and though it's not like being a rock star, it will come along, so don't waste it like rock stars waste it by going at it rote and half-assed. Let the ladies know that you are really there. Then, of course, they will keep buying your books.

And let this be enough advice for a little while. Oh yes, I won $180 opening day, dropped $80 yesterday, so today is the day that counts. It's ten minutes to eleven. First post 2 p.m. I must start lining up my horse genes. There was a guy out there yesterday with a heart machine attached to himself and he was sitting in a wheelchair. He was making bets. Put him in a rest home and he'll be dead overnight. Saw another guy out there, blind. He must have had a better day than I did yesterday. I've got to phone Quagliano and tell him I've finished this article. Now there's a very strange son of a bitch. I don't know how he makes it and he won't tell me. I see him at the boxing matches sitting there with a beer and looking very relaxed. I wonder what he's got going? He's got me worried...

Small Press Review - May, 1973


dr keith armstrong in tuebingen

It will be good to meet up and talk about poetry/politics and stuff, have a good time in Germany and take care, look forward to seeing you again; until when, keep all those lovely words flowing (along with the beer of course) and I'll see you in April.

Regards, Robert Lonsdale.

GOOD LUCK, cheers to Tuebingen and all our friends there; if you ever come by at Boulanger, cheers to my favourite Tuebingen place.
Poet Uwe Kolbe (perm. resid. in Berlin-Charlottenburg)

In November 2007, we celebrated the 20th anniversary of Keith Armstrong's first visit to Tübingen. In 1987, this poet from our North East England twin of County Durham spent three weeks in Tübingen and performed his poetry in the Municipal Library, in the Culture Club at the University, at the Leibniz College, and in Tübingen schools.

Since then, Keith Armstrong has kept coming back to Tübingen.

Tirelessly, he has made contact, and has kept in touch with, authors and musicians in Durham and in Tübingen and also put them in contact with each other. Meanwhile, he has his own self made network of numerous persons and institutions, within which he moves here and there proposing new projects to the partners. His friendly dynamism brings him in contact with more and more new people and maintains friendship with the old ones.

Locations and opportunities for his readings have become more numerous and multi-faceted over the years: new additions to the list are the Castle of Hohentübingen, the Irish Pub near the castle, the Hölderlin-Tower, the Hesse House in Herrenberger Street, the Jazz-Cellar, Lindenhof Theater in Melchingen on the Swabian Alb, the former 'Depot' on the Reutlingen Street (at a poetry slam organized by students), the German-American Institute, the square behind the Stiftskirche or a reading in a tent at the Market Square at the Tübingen Book Festival and, last but not least, The Boulanger, where he is a regular guest.

During his readings, which were real performances since his rhythmic way of reciting turns every location into a stage, he often performed together with musicians – he performed poems on topics from his North East England home, where there were numerous coal mines until 1992, and he also performed some of his Tübingen poems. In them, he talks about great Tübingen authors as well as passers-by on the streets and squares which captivated him for a short time and which now live on in the poems. He imagines what it is like to be one of the buildings in Tübingen like the Stiftskirche or the Castle, or he echoes the droning of Tübingen bells thundering up and down the streets.

Or he records an encounter in a plane, where the man next to him turns out to be a pig farmer from Wurmlingen (near Tübingen) with whom he drinks to the successful twinning between Tübingen and County Durham.

‘And pigs might fly’ is the title of this poem.

Now we are all able to read these poems. We are happy that Keith Armstrong has realised a long nourished idea with his unique publication. It shows the attraction and radiance which Tübingen has with a sensitive visitor from far away and it shows the liveliness of our connection with our English twin County Durham in the domains of words and music.

Margit Aldinger

Kulturamt Tübingen

(translated by Karin Miedler)


‘To the Very Honourable Poet Mr Keith Armstrong:

I wish you good luck for all the seasons in your life and always a high inspiration for your poems.’

(Jochen from the Hoelderlin Tower)

‘People warn you against the profession of poet,

Also against playing the flute, the drums, the violin,

Because riffraff of this sort

So often tend toward drinking and frivolity.’

(Hermann Hesse)

‘I am not surprised that so many people with odd corners come fom Tuebingen...for the town is itself nooked and crannied.’

(Frederike Braun-Primavesi-Robert)

I first visited Durham’s twin city of Tuebingen to give a series of poetry readings for three weeks in November 1987, with the assistance of the Tuebingen Kulturamt and Durham County Council.

I proceeded to fall in love with the place.

Having now been there over thirty times and written all of these poems about it, I am still trying to work out just what it is, what peculiar magic, that draws me back at least twice a year.

Gunter Grass once said that ‘In Germany you’re always noticing how present the past is’ - and he, especially in the light of recent events, should know.

A lot of that past is ugly, we all know that. Just visit the memorial on Gartenstrasse to the burning down of the synagogue on Kristallnacht to remind yourself. And, of course, the Wall is down, its loss followed inevitably by all the grand schemes and tragedies that grow in its great shadow.

Yet, in Tuebingen, I have always detected the lovely whiff of beauty.

I have found it all over town - in the glint of a girl’s hair, in the light on The Neckar, in the sweep of cobbled streets, in the trill of the blackbirds on Corrensstrasse, even in the candlelight of my local bar ‘The Boulanger’.

Of course, it’s a university city, ‘a town on a campus’ some have said, and that gives it a somewhat ‘bookish’ air, which I have found inspiring - and not only because I have been a guest poet at its Buecherfest on three occasions.

The ghost of Hegel stalks ‘The Boulanger’ still, the young Hesse’s boots clatter up Lange Gasse at night, Hoelderin slips by in a ‘poetry boat’ - and, yes, Goethe continues to puke here!

I have ‘crashed’ all over Tuebingen’ - under the old beams of Lange Gasse 18 (‘The Old Slaughterhouse’) with the church bells clanging in my brain; in a lonely basement on Gartenstrasse, in an idyllic hillside villa - and I always head back for more.

I have performed my poetry in the Castle, the University, the Public Library, in the Uhland and Kepler Gymnasiums, behind the Church, at an Erotic Cabaret, a Poetry Slam, in the Club Voltaire, in bars all over town, from a punt on the river, in the Hoelderlin Tower, the Hesse-Haus, the D.A.I, the Jazz Keller, at the nearby Theatre Lindenhof, on regional radio - still I can’t get enough!

I can remember bowling round the town with poet Julia Darling and finding a bag of coat hangers in a shop doorway, then walking into an art gallery through its open window and giving out the coat hangers in question to a bemused crowd at an exhibition opening before we left, minus coat hangers, through the window again. They all thought that this was ‘a happening’! I suppose it was, in a way.

I have joined in with the mania of the annual Stockerkahnrennen boat race in the heat of June, wandered through trees along the Platanenallee with a lovely lady, and slid drunk along Tuebingen gutters in white winters. I have seen this twinned place in all its moods and seasons, shared its glories with a bizarre selection of poets and musicians from Durham and North East England and, all the while, arranged literary exchanges, with several Tuebingen poets and musicians visiting Durham.

Many’s the time I’ve enjoyed lunch at the Neckarmueller with Margit, Carolyn and Karin, shared a Guinness with the lyrical poet Uwe Kolbe and jocular academics Eberhard Bort and Christopher Harvie, sat under the tree with the stalwart Otto Buchegger, sipped wine with rocking Juergen and mates in the Market Place, indulged in literary badinage with Gitte and Hans Schwarze, savoured fine wines and dinners with Carolyn, Christoph and Carmen at Corrensstrasse 45, and gladly accepted the remarkable hospitality of Gerd and Gabi Oberlin, who later drove me to Lake Constance. The list, my friends, is endless.

I have measured out my life in Tuebingen days.

See you again soon - ‘back in The Boulanger’! Have the drinks waiting for me, Karl!

Dr Keith Armstrong



I am the other Keith Armstrong

The Chief Executive of Slime

The King of the Bank of England

The slob of convention

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The head of an advertiser

The brains of capital

The puke of celebrity

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The quango rat

The official in uniform

The master of ceremony

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The snide critic

The illiterate journalist

The central hack

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The arch competitor

The success of a banker

The conceptual accountant

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The deadly soldier

The machine gunner of poetry

The committed committee man

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The party prune

The rock and roll businessman

The Head of Leisure

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The hard lad of literature

The thug of the Arts

The political cleansing agent

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The industrious loot collector

The fruit machine wanker

The precision bomber

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The foul mouthed gourmet

The government terrorist

The casual rapist

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The dreamer of cash

The crusher of bird song

The killer of whales

I am the other Keith Armstrong

The gagger of truth

The scribbler of emptiness

The slaughterer of dreams

I am the other Keith Armstrong



You never knew
how beautiful I could be.
You never saw
just how blue my eyes were.
You couldn’t feel me fly
and did not sense
the passion in my beating words.

So don’t come to my funeral,
don’t come to my funeral.

You were never there
when my heart broke.
You didn’t pick me up
when my ideals drowned.
You never got drunk with me
in the sunshine of my smiles.
You never felt the love in me.

So don’t come to my funeral,
don’t come to my funeral.

You hemmed in my free spirit
with your overeducated mind.
You trapped the birds in my poems
and caged my strong ideas.
You couldn’t act the fool
for fear you lost your face.
You never risked a dance.

So don’t come to my funeral,
don’t come to my funeral.

You never studied the art of chance,
the sudden surge of love in a stranger,
the golden coin in an Edinburgh gutter.
Your education controlled your heart.
Would you save me as I fell from the sky?
Would you bleed for me?
I sense not, I sense you are cold.

So don’t come to my funeral,
don’t come to my funeral.
I don’t want to see you there.

Because you lied to me forever.
Because you couldn’t play a tune in your poems.

Don’t come to my funeral,
don’t come to my funeral.

Keith Armstrong




The Federation Brewery Amateur Riders’ Selling Handicap Steeple Chase




The Buchanan Ales Conditional Jockeys’ Handicap Hurdle Race




The Keoghans ‘National Hunt’ Novices’ Hurdle Race






The Levy Board Maiden National Flat Race






The Federation Brewery Novices’ Steeple Chase





The Grant Williamson Chartered Accountants ‘National Hunt’ Novices’ Hurdle Race (Div 2)





The Service Welding Novices’ Hurdle Race




The Keoghans Novices’ Hurdle Race






The Consett Printing Company Standard Open ‘National Hunt’ Flat Race (Class H)





Hexham Courant Novice Handicap Hurdle Race (Class E)




Keith Armstrong


in honour


(in loving memory of Adrian Mitchell, 1932-2008)

On Adrian Mitchell’s answerphone:
bells ring,
birds sing,

On Adrian Mitchell’s answerphone:
Blake works a miracle,
Big Ben sounds hysterical,
the world waxes lyrical!

On Adrian Mitchell’s answerphone:
the passwords sigh,
the terrorists cry,
the children fly!

On Adrian Mitchell’s answerphone:
leave plenty of love
after the tone!


*a poem written in the late nineteen eighties




another’s life,


their landscape,

you live a profound lie.


on gorging

on a history

not your own,

on music

which comes

from a river you weren’t born by,

you are a thief,

a stealer

of dreams

not yours.


about yourself,

your heart,

before you tell

the tales of others,

before you take over

and buy

into a culture

and landscape

you can never










Armstrong also performs at Cafe Piccolo in Tuebingen with local band Acoustic Pastimes at 21.00 on Monday 4th April and appears at Neckartenzlingen School at 10.00 on Wednesday 6th April

the jingling geordie

My photo
whitley bay, tyne and wear, United Kingdom
poet and raconteur