Friday Evening Prompts

There are places I don't go

Is this where God hides?

Where can I go then, from the smell?

Just an ordinary, bald man, from the bald mountains

John Corner

I see the girls with yellow teeth and wicked smiles

He is soured by years of celibacy

Too far, too far, too far

The sheep are grazing above the village

Twelve Angry Men

Do not go to the woods. They say there is a poet there

You Have Mail

We are a people thinned out by war, and old.

Diesel is not Petrol, and Vice Versa

I found a dead poem, slowly rotting, being picked over by critics

There are cries in the dark

We have heard these things before. We have heard these things too often

I will switch to another author

And you, my father

Civilisation walks on an edge

All day it has rained, and we are cold

They have built their tents above us

I sleep.


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