This poem has absolutely nothing to do with me reaching the end of my time as Managing Editor of Cordite Poetry Review.

just not possible. it’s not possible that the heart could heal itself (within days the way a novel does, metaphorically, or the way a tree heals the wind as it sways not likely. not in my lifetime, or yours will…

no he’s not dead yet (as if he ever could pass on or away from this winged world Ephrem Tamiru! tell us what you think re Anchin Kalmeselesh or else just th sax (sax slow and shark-like snarls through an…

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…

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…

Bara de döda stiger av i Kymlinge … Only yesterday I thought it was a great idea; The trees were still covered in cutesy icicles, Dead birds lined the footpaths & I wanted to Get on at a mystery station…

drop drop the hangul! gimme gimme gimme gimme sun raaaaaa – no, the other kind! yessir eeyo davey drop the davey drop the dream, nation! yeeeaah drop it yoda drop it you must yoda! any other kind of sun ra…

Call me Kid A, capitalising on my foreign-power language, breezily erasing any thoughts of running aside to land here, finally, in this new town. Way below zero I go, plunging into a new career just as the Metro escalators do,…