Faith Tree
I write a poem about the North There's a dead sheep I don't know what it means It's Ireland says my apple My orchard My son The one who fells me with his clarity
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- 872 reads
HOMELESS
My contribution to the Homel;ess debate.
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- 1198 reads
Double-Agent
counterspy hooked to its medulla, it adjusts this way, that
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- 1269 reads
The Three Halves of Martyn Manning--Chapter One: Long Crendon
Tom and Janet meet for dinner, and Martyn's fate is decided.
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- 2819 reads
The Forms
The forms walk around day after day, and they always move the same, and they love that moving—they move along with everything else that's been placed above the ground.
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- 426 reads
Losing Schwartz
Schwartz called me. He wanted to show me the device he'd finished. He said it took you away. I said that sounded fascinating, and agreed to join him.
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- 429 reads
Hell's right here.
When there is only fear.
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- 751 reads
Exhausted.
Househusbands/wives with broken down tumble driers will recognise this!
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- 912 reads