Neil Fawcett

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Born to a soul-less suburb of South Manchester in  ’62 .

He peddles songs and poetry political and personal to a paltry

audience. He wasted years as a feckless facilitator in a failing

educational establishment and now sits in damp silence in a

shed at the bottom of his garden, slaughtering the noble art of

poetry.

He often wanders the stony trails of Greece hearing rock falls,

cicades, the lap of the azure and Ritsos while sharing the chocolate

of the carob with mountain goats.

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