Poetic Biography

More nonsense when ego overrides shyness.

Harry Hogg
3 min readApr 26, 2024
Image: One of Mum’s last hugs

Still, be wary.

What if Harry Hogg isn’t the man you’ve read about who punches first, asks questions later, or turns up like a shadow or jackhammer smashing into sensitivities.

Be careful if he smiles. You don’t know like who, someone said Jo Cocker, and you go away after that first time you read something he wrote, thinking maybe you don’t want to read that stuff; another time, you come across another piece, and he’s talking of trains, planes, and that other one.

He might tell you he came crawling home to bed so devastatingly drunk. He worries you because he has so much — and thinks so little.

Can Harry Hogg offer several worlds of pleasure to unknown people? On another day, he is one whose gentleness touches women. He can be difficult, but he is the only man who consistently makes that laughing face smile. Yet, Christ, in public, he can be a mean bastard! He can return home with a bloodied nose, not for his aggressive behavior but for his misunderstood and poorly timed humor.

Nobody else gets a bloody nose for a joke.

He dislikes generation gaps and people called Steve (one anyway) and is affectionately misguided in everything he tries. It comes to this. Whatever kind of writer he is, there’s just one of him. You don’t have to love him. He will leave it up to you if you think there is any reason to do so.

Sometimes, he will openly laugh to keep from crying. Compliments crush him.

His writings are like children; he attempts to keep them in warm clothes.

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