Buy my poetry books. Validate my life choices.

So a couple of volumes of my poetry are available to buy online.  Paperback should still even reach you before Christmas if you hurry and order now.  And you can have it on Kindle in a whisper.

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US readers: get it here.
And UK readers from here.

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Available from here in the US…
… or here in the UK.

It’s available everywhere in the world, but it would have taken forever to link every single Amazon site by country.  A cursory search will turn it up, wherever you are.

There Are No Right Answers

I wrote this piece about two years ago.  Brexit and Trump (and by extension the whole resurgence and validation of so much hate-filled right-wing ideology) had me questioning a lot of things about the world, our values systems and what the future holds for us as a species.  Sadly, I haven’t found many answers since.

I guess this is my contribution to modern-day Western scar literature.

Uphill, With Rain At My Back

Heavy clouds threaten the
bankrupt horizon like
bad book reviews.
The bottom line looms
ugly and final
under everything.
There’s no money
in trying to be
a decent human being.
Evil makes good
investments, amasses
a robust stock portfolio.
Getting by is
hard enough.
Any day now,
those bastards
will find a way
to tax sunlight.

The rain follows me as
I walk uphill.  Ahead of me, it’s
bright and dry, but the rain
keeps pace perfectly, falling
only on the backs of my shoulders, and
somehow,
this is not a metaphor.

The psychological fallout of living in Interesting Times

I know a lot of people who are struggling inside their own headspace at the minute, myself included.  I’m reaching out to find out who else is feeling messed up and what we think is causing it.  There’s a very short survey  below if you fancy sharing your thoughts.

Whether you complete the survey or not, if you’re one of the many going through a tough time at the moment: That sucks, and I’m sorry.

RSVP

Something seasonal…

Well, it’s winter.
Feels like it has been for
oh, a few years now, and there’s
not enough vitamin D in the universe.
I’m sticky with a low-grade fever I’ve been
running since forever.
My hands still sweat too much
gripping a steering wheel, heart caught
somewhere unsustainable and
treacherous between over-revving and
stalling.  There are
dead things at the side of every road; my
foreshortened sense of future is
written in the entrails of
creatures who never learned
to look both ways.  Incidentally,
I’m still off meat.
I’m not sleeping right.  I keep having this same
cold, lurching dream; night after night,
we’re boarding the dark, sinister hulk of a ship
squatting low in a hostile harbour, refugees on
an ill-fated voyage, borne by
violent winds and poisoned tides.
Awake, I make the mistake of clinging to
facts and reason, when apparently we’re
guided now by phrenology, comets
and hate.  The news cycle spins away like
some fairytale spinning wheel, one
poisonous prick after another, until we all
wish we could sleep for a hundred years, or
at least until Brexit is over.
I suspect my cat of being a
deep state agent and myself
of being a crisis actor (I’m always
showing up on the periphery of these
seemingly unrelated catastrophes).
In this house, we drink spirits when
a comrade dies; I’ve got a handle on the
drinking, but the grief
is getting to be a destructive habit.  Altogether
too
many
deaths.
It gets noisy in here, in my
head (train station noisy; busy, but transient; cold
and dirty and full of strangers).
I look at butterflies, orchids, tigers, roadkill,
x-rays of tumour-riddled lungs, and see
only Rorschach blots.  Shrug. It’s not like
any of it matters.  It’s impossible to take
this carnival of absurdity seriously anymore.
In any event, while I thank you for your kind invitation,
for these and other reasons, I will not
be coming to your
New Year’s Party.