We now have to consider The gibbet They prayed He would not requite his death With storms or other adversaries A bed full of fleas Was more than merely witty Then came the ballybog Mud covered they rise On their bulbous bodies Arms and legs…

Train tracks like a tattoo Down the arm of my city Bogged down in boom time Every house tells Of another boom that flared Then died Cities aren’t trees They are built for industry Not for beauty Or the practicality Of water and air Or…

I had hoped that Watching my footprints I would stop going in circles The gate master fiddled And asked for my passport I begged the gatekeeper For cider and cake In the old tradition Of wasailing He told me to sing But I couldn’t think…

I dream in poem Faking comas Snorting laughter Now it has happened I speak only in poetry

The advantages are clear I left my oxygen mask on because the others did with hope to find her he knew where she was and I doubted the smile so cris crossed with shadow Was her killers face

This simulation is not as the former this dreadful trumpet you’ll be the death of me yet across the littered ground (again, the choice is/was yours) where you will find everything you need this simulation is not as the latter I’ll send for the dreadful…

After some twenty of them had been disposed of during the waning moon with costumes and masks and enchantments he now wished he had not sacrificed his sons laughing they would never throw themselves down weeping to die of grief we have to rise just…

Clothed in lavender and rosemary boughs iridescent orbits delight and entrance coconuts and bongos interrupt the tranquil sight volcanic stones make my tread light I’m naked and unrepentant rushing up an island arises to blight the whole scene reeking of garden oils, flowers and clean…

He allowed himself to be carried away by the massive hallucinations he had produced and why not? he asked of the wallpaper and drapes bees fly, birds glide, balloons loft and pollen….disperses so too my sights my visions shall smear across the sky shattering the…

I’m not dreaming this sense of allegory I’m not imagining this sense of melancholy dark robed figures swing scimitars in grain filled fields of wheat and oats death is in the harvest bloated bodies line the streets no cart, no crier, no relief i can’t…