Ian Badcoe Poetry

Beneath a bronze sky Soon as we clear harbour we set sail, make quick and furtive offerings to all the spirits we know —as incom...

Conversation with an old AI It's only in our time we become real I have had twenty seven power cells, nine casings, eleven pro...

Why I have weaponized the thistledown Awake the pollen grains and log each tiny particle gone with the wind onto our most secure of...