For a long time I refused to write poetry, thinking it it would turn me into a pasty teenage goth or, worse, a a sweater-wearing pseudo-intellectual.  That all changed when I injured my back and was unable to sit and write for long periods at a time.  Forced to expel the creative urge somehow, I started composing poetry and found, to my endless shock and amusement, that I rather liked it.  Since then, I’ve cast nary a backward glance.

"By Its Cover" is a poem about judgement.

"Uniquitous" is about snow. No, not really.

"Desert Borne" is dedicated to the Armed Services.

"Junkie" is about, well, a junkie.

"Sonnet" is dedicated to my one true love.

"Garden Apathy" is about to the art of procrastination.

"Nightlife" is about, you know, getting fucked.

"I Don't Know" is dedicated to a good friend of mine.

"I Love You" is for the same person.

"The End of an Irishman" is about the great Oscar Wilde.

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