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
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
PS Buy a copy of Ballistics! Save SALT