As of October 2011, I’d posted over three hundred poems on this site, including many sonnets and search poems, as well as numerous poems that didn’t make it into chapbooks such as Abendland and Morgenland. I then ceased posting poems here, choosing instead to distribute them via my poem of the week newsletter. Then I stopped doing that too. Every now and then I post a poem here … but not as often as I’d like.

The Curtains

This is possibly one of my oldest unpublished poems, probably dating from around 1992. I remember showing it to a girl I was going out with in the late 1990s; she read it and then exclaimed "But what does it meeeeeaaannnnn???!" We broke up shortly after that.

From the archives: What a bird

This is one of my all-time favourite poems, mostly because it's just so daft. I think I wrote it in the late 1990s. It has a real 'I don't give a fuck' feel about it. I remember reading it at 'Chapel off Chapel' at some point, right before the release of The Happy Farang. Good times. Great times.

Sam & Dave historical tour

One of the things that I've been quietly bitter about for a long time now is the fact that the Wikipedia page for David Prater redirects to the page for Dave Prater from the soul duo Sam and Dave. Some time earlier this century I attempted to channel my misguided anger via a poem on the subject. You can decide for yourself whether or not I was successful.

From the Archives: Desmond

I think I must have written this poem some time in the early 1990s. I have absolutely no idea what it's about but I really like the concluding couplet, for some reason (and in fact I think I've even re-used it in other poems over the years as well).


star swinging so slowly spookily seven signs say someone’s sleepy saying so so softly somnambulent shredding sorrow saxily swaying snakes simmering so snowily sad so smitten saying sutures shiny someone’s sax subtracts sneezes singly singing sinew shutterbug starsigns signs so…

a little bird tells me

start: doo-wop is the new ter-weetie: sheet iron rules the world of river commerce, still maniacs wander the streets of wood mill towns aimlessly, listening to portable transistors, waiting till their batteries run down to nothing. sometimes, i wonder what…