There is rather a good little novel, by the ferocious AA Gill, ex alcoholic, squeaky voiced wordsmith, Master of The Sunday Times and fielder of ‘The Blonde’, called Starcrossed. It is about a failing poet, who has had enough, and goes for the sexy offices and warm thigh-ed success of a famous Celeb. The problem is, as the writing at times rises to real poetry, or real literature, in trying to be a best-selling money spinner, it exemplifies the very thing it half bemoans, and is the failure of poetry. Come the modern world, the tie-in and the careful brand. Martin Amis did it just as cleverly in his little short story satire about a writer making a fortune selling Sonnets to Hollywood, while a sci-fi author is struggling with his heart, mind and soul in his impoverished garret. He ended up moving to France, in disgust at ‘culture’. There is no money in poetry, and there was, or certainly glory, look at pop star Byron, but there is always positive work for the struggling soul! Maybe a singer will come along and let me write lyrics.

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