27: A Self-Interview with a Poet on Life, Writing, and the Upcoming Tribute to Jim Morrison

In December of this year, The Broken Spine will be publishing my latest poetry collection, 27 – a collection of poetry for Jim Morrison on what would have been his 80th birthday. In anticipation of this release, I conducted a self-interview using AI to delve into my life, my writing career thus far, and what lies ahead for me in the future. Here’s an overview of our insightful conversation:

AI: I’d love to hear about your early experiences with music and how it influenced your creative journey.

AP: I got into music early on, mostly thanks to my dad. It was one of the first things we really connected over. He wasn’t a big reader or anything like that, but music was his thing, and it quickly became mine too. Some of my favourite memories are just the two of us listening to the stuff he grew up with. That’s when I first started paying proper attention to lyrics.

He played me artists like Bob Dylan, Frank Zappa, The Specials, musicians who didn’t just make noise, but actually had something to say. Their songs were packed with ideas, anger, humour, politics. That’s where it all started for me: a love of music, sure, but also a love of the words behind it, and the sense that art could push back a bit, could question things. Looking back, that was probably my first real doorway into literature, even if I didn’t know it at the time.

AI: Could you share some specific songs or lyrics that had a profound impact on you during your youth and why they resonated with you?

AP: There were certain songs that hit me hard when I was younger, songs that didn’t just sound good, but made me stop and think. Bob Dylan’s Hurricane was one of them. I remember being struck by the story of Rubin Carter, this man who was wrongly imprisoned, and how Dylan just laid it all out. It opened my eyes to injustice, racism, and the way systems fail people.

Then there was Frank Zappa’s Any Kind of Pain, which seemed to be everywhere in our house. That one got under my skin too, even though I was only nine or ten at the time. It’s about how women are portrayed in the media, the shallowness of celebrity culture, and the kind of fake personalities the world buys into. Heavy stuff for a kid, maybe, but it got me thinking early on about the way the world works, and how we present ourselves in it.

Those songs, they sparked real conversations in my head. They made me curious, made me question things. That curiosity’s probably what led me to writing in the first place.

AI: When did you discover The Doors? Can you tell us more about how that discovery unfolded and the impact it had on your creative journey?

AP: I first came across The Doors in the spring of 2000, and it ended up being a bit of a turning point creatively. My dad had The Best of The Doors on CD, classic cover with Jim Morrison staring out like some kind of prophet, but at the time, I didn’t quite get it. I gave the first disc a go, but it didn’t grab me straight away. I was still deep in my Beatles phase, and The Doors felt a bit too out there, too intense.

But something shifted a few years later. I’d started writing songs, messing about with poetry, and that need for something darker, more unpredictable started to grow. I met a colleague who played bass in a band that basically worshipped The Doors, and he introduced me to An American Prayer. That was the gateway. After that, I dove into Wilderness and The Lords and the New Creatures, and that was it. I was hooked. Morrison’s voice, his imagery, his weird, charged lyricism, it just clicked.

Looking back, it wasn’t love at first listen, but it was meant to happen. And when it did, it changed how I thought about words, music, and the space in between.

AI: Your journey from college dropout to Master of Arts and Lecturer in English is quite remarkable. Could you share more about the challenges you faced and how you ultimately achieved this milestone?

AP: I left college at 17 without a plan. I was struggling with my mental health, carrying the weight of bullying that started at school and followed me into college. It was a rough time, and by the time I hit 18, I was already deep into drinking. An old friend said to me years later, summer 2022, that I was basically an alcoholic by then. I don’t disagree.

On top of that, my parents’ relationship was falling apart. They thought they were hiding it from me, but they weren’t. Not really. That mess left scars and for a long while, it drove a wedge between my dad and me.

Things started to change when I met Kirsty in 2004. I was twenty. Her support gave me something solid to hold onto. Then I had an accident, couldn’t work for months, and weirdly, that gave me the space I needed to rethink everything. I signed up with The Open University. It took seven years, through a lot of moves, a lot of personal upheaval, and losing my mum, who had always quietly believed in me. I pushed through because I wanted to make her proud, to prove my sixth form tutor wrong, and to prove my primary school teacher right.

I qualified to teach during the pandemic, which wasn’t easy. I knew I needed real classroom experience, so I went back to my old high school and worked as a Cover Supervisor while finishing my MA in Popular Culture. That was 2021: grief, chaos, lockdowns, and yet, somehow, progress.

Now I’m a Lecturer in English in Further Education. It feels good to be here, though the idea of doing a PhD still lingers at the back of my mind. For now, though, my focus is on teaching, on showing up, doing the work, and giving students the chance someone once gave me.

AI: Your publishing history includes Neon Ghosts (2020), Belisama (2021), Echoes (2022), and Twenty Seven (2023). Can you tell us about the inspiration behind each of these works and how they fit into your creative journey?

AP: My journey as a writer is mapped out pretty clearly in the books I’ve published. Each one shows where I was at the time, what I was chasing, and what I was trying to figure out:

Neon Ghosts (2020): This was me deep in the world of mid-twentieth-century American writers, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Bukowski. I was obsessed with the idea of America, but not the real place, more the version you see in music, films, and books. That half-lit, half-imagined America that feels so real and yet just out of reach.

Belisama (2021): Belisama was a team effort. I worked alongside Mary Earnshaw, David Walshe, and Paul Robert Mullen, and together we became The Southport Poets. The book holds forty poems, ten each, and paints four different visions of Southport. Some proud, some critical, some somewhere in between.

Echoes (2022): Echoes came after a conversation with Matthew M. C. Smith, who challenged me to open up more, to put myself on the page. This is probably the closest I’ll ever come to an autobiography. It’s family history told through letters, memories, and the small things that never quite leave you.

Twenty Seven (2023): Twenty Seven is a gift to Jim Morrison. He shaped my early writing life more than anyone else. If he’d lived, he would’ve been 80 this year. This book borrows from his music, his writing, and his view of the world. It’s not strictly ekphrastic, but if I’d never found The Doors, this collection wouldn’t exist.

AI: Echoes began as a set of poems with a central theme of fruit. Could you elaborate on how this theme evolved into a collection, and what personal significance it holds for you?

AP: Echoes actually started life as a bunch of poems I wrote for a university competition, all built around the theme of fruit. Sounds strange, but it made sense to me, so many of my childhood memories are tied up with fruit and cooking. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my two grandmothers and my parents. Those moments stuck, and I wanted to honour them somehow.

The poems didn’t win, though they got close, which left me sitting there with almost half a chapbook already done. The pandemic hit not long after, and with all that enforced time and space, I decided to finish it properly. I added a long monologue piece too, a fictionalised version of my maternal grandmother’s life story. It gave the book a bit more backbone, something raw to hold it all together.

Writing Echoes was personal and, honestly, cathartic. I’m still proud of it. It’s one of those projects that feels completely mine.

AI: You’ve mentioned your love for poetry with musicality. Could you elaborate on how music and poetry intersect in your creative process and why you’re drawn to this musical aspect of verse?

AP: I do love poetry that’s musical, I’m definitely drawn to it. Since I really got deep into poetry, I’ve found myself listening to a lot more jazz too. There’s something in that connection: the looseness, the instinct, the way both can throw you off balance in the best way.

I’m mostly not interested in poetry that’s built around rhyme and strict traditional forms. I like to be surprised. I want a poem to catch me off guard, the same way a good jazz musician will bend a note or break a rhythm when you least expect it.

There are other links too, that way both poetry and great songwriting can speak for the everyman, can hit on some fundamental human truth. But for me, it’s that element of surprise, that unpredictability, that keeps me coming back. That’s where the magic is.

AI: What advice would you give to aspiring poets and writers who are looking to embark on their own creative journey?

AP: Read a lot. Write often. Share your work. Be porous to feedback.

AI: What exciting projects do you have on the horizon, and what can your audience look forward to in the coming years?

AP: Well, Twenty Seven is coming out in December, which I’m excited about. I’m also deep into editing Kyla Houbolt’s upcoming collection, Surviving Death. Those two alone will keep me busy for a while.

I’m working every day on my next book too, a mix of prose and poetry. I’ve had an incredible offer from a brilliant press and editorial team, but that’s staying under wraps until next year.

2024’s going to be another big one for The Broken Spine. We’ve got three single-author chapbooks lined up, plus a selected works celebrating twenty-five years of writing from a seriously good poet, which will be out just before Christmas. We’re also opening for submissions for our next collective anthology early next year.

On top of all that, I’m hoping to take Noir, my one-man show, back out live again, maybe even with some musical accompaniment this time. We’ve got a few other live events in the pipeline too. And I’m putting together a writing course, aimed at helping writers take what they’re doing and sharpen it into something that really lands.

AI: How would you summarise the impact of poetry on your life and what it means to you personally and professionally?

AP: Without poetry, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. It’s that simple. I owe so much to it, and to the people who kept me going when I needed it most. The poetry community held me up, and now it feels right to try and give something back. Poetry connects people. It’s not about grand gestures; it’s about the quiet way it says, you’re not alone. It heals, it inspires, it sticks around when other things don’t. That’s what I’m trying to honour when I write. Not just the art form itself, but the community that gave me a way through some of the hardest moments in my life.