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 I own, I own I owe it to my will.
“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,
Beware the Public Footpath signs,
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.
Finally / Chop the chives
Following a trail of
For a decade we fought off the wild polar bears,
For what’s existence but a burden to be borne?
From the back of the van the man heaves The Mirror Ball,
From troubles of the world I turn to Alexander Lukashenko,
“Gyrrwch yn ofalus / Please drive carefully”
Had a mate called Spider when I was a lad.
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,
Here we are now. There’s no returning.
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 often lie awake and wonder
I only came once a year –
I remember that beer-soaked summer,
I / Remember / You / Remember / Me:
I want to be uncontactable.
I was harvesting slime with my concubine
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
Nobody expected them to thrive so well
One day, I know, you will begin
Only my second dentist’s appointment
Painted horses graze the pastures
Privacy is heresy nowadays.
Somewhere deep within
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
These back lanes are suggestive
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
We two were born, entwined like vines,
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
Whoever knows these words will not taste death.
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,”