All my poems published to date, listed in alphabetical order by first line.
A metaphor for everything
A nice big war came through
A red eye glints and squints,
A sweaty grip on a suitcase handle,
“All that is free is careless,” she said
All we lowly wingless grubs
An explosion of filaments
Armed with a chisel and equipped with the time
At ten is the time a Coptic
Benefactress, retired actress,
Creative destruction, said Marx,
Did dinosaurs dance
Did genius effect its genesis?
Each day dawns, a drawn breath held till dusk.
Every generation gets the art it asks for.
Following a trail of
For a decade we fought off the wild polar bears,
From the back of the van the man heaves The Mirror Ball,
Half a mile north of Walter de Wale’s town,
Hard is the road, is the road I walk,
“Have you ever tried needles?” he asked,
How best could I, presented with your form,
I found an object in a location.
I have mastered the equation,
I have my doubts.
I heard a voice from a bin
I only came once a year –
I remember that beer-soaked summer,
Iblis, full of hubris.
If I were a unit of lore,
In Sahara’s sunset’s shade lies a wall,
Its dimensions are delicious:
I’ve passed through the rapids
Just a trope in your narrative,
Just as a sheaf’s wheat to the sickle yields,
Let us be honest. Let us be thorough.
Lone cuspid: Atlantic mandibular;
Look around you; say what you see;
Man became tribal
Motes of ashen newspaper
My art is greater than your art
My “art” is stacked against
My two-year-old daughter sits in the corner
No ceremonial farewell
One day, I know, you will begin
Only my second dentist’s appointment
Painted horses graze the pastures
Privacy is heresy nowadays.
Stale fates in failed states
The bear and the lion seek your honey,
The internet’s an empty space,
The mist clung close to the trunk road.
The muse, the must who used to hue my blues,
The old house we left is still here,
The river rises with the rains
Their cousins still roam St Kilda’s Soay,
There is no argument yet made
There’s a man digging for lugworms –
There’s an industrial hum
They make it our business.
This poem is not worth
This will be my legacy: a…
War and famine won’t sell soft drinks:
We fell asleep beneath red leaves
Welcome to art school,
When I was young I conquered all that I surveyed:
Where is the heart of Europe?
While that other velky Alexander
Would you walk the trembling embers with me, Lord?
You are the crushed cans of Foster’s
You washed and dried your hands
You wear your sleeves long all the year round
“You’ve backed me into a corner,”