You Are Who You Choose To Be.

The World Rolls Under The Long Thrust Of His Heel. Over The Cage Floor The Horizons Come.

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

One Day God Felt He Ought To Give His Workshop A Spring Clean... It Was Amazing What Ragged Bits And Pieces Came From Under His Workbench As He Swept. Beginnings Of Creatures, Bits That Looked Useful But Had Seemed Wrong, Ideas He'd Mislaid And Forgotten... There Was Even A Tiny Lump Of Sun. He Scratched His Head. What Could Be Done With All This Rubbish?

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.

Where Are The Gods The Gods Hate Us The Gods Have Run Away The Gods Have Hidden In Holes The Gods Are Dead Of The Plague They Rot And Stink Too There Never Were Any Gods There’s Only Death