I am the daydream.
A mind slip-up of the daytime hour.
Bring me deeper—I will teach you to write of Midsummer Nights.
Dust pouch, a shattered ruby
(for I know dreams are worth more than rubies),
A sigil mask of power.
I do not trip over trembling void.
My possibilities exist only within yours.
What memories have you for me today?
My crown can serve all men of Continue reading
I am writing on the pain
While trading truths for driving rain.
I disappear in shards of ice
That melt into a shallow pool
Of thoughts and sense too grey to paint–
All this from a liquor glass.
I flip a coin, drop rolling dice
On a thick table full of Continue reading
I was reading a lot of Leonard Cohen when I wrote this one.
i am living in the t.v
and there is a lady
in the room complaining
of the volume.
you take the controller
and hand it to Continue reading
In the mind there is a border-
The brave may cross, the cowards may lean, but
This is not an excuse to stay idle.
The word of the day is manacle–
It is something to avoid, or, if you can’t,
It is harsh here.
The rubble stairs are inviting,
The oil-slick coasts are full of moors
And every candle burns at both ends.
We are all of us Sisyphus.
Mrs. Harriet Turtlebridge did not particularly enjoy killing. In fact, she would avoid it altogether if at all possible. Even still, her dislike of the act didn’t prevent her from doing it once a week, usually on a Tuesday morning, just after finishing her daily biscuit. The roses felt no pain when she killed them, she liked to think as much, as she snipped two from the vine in her glasshouse. Always two, one for her and the other for her husband. She tucked the first into a fold at the front of her tea-gown and the other she held in her hand as she exited to the yard.
Her floral haven was immense. The glasshouse was twice, perhaps thrice the size of her tiny cottage, standing in the very back of the yard just on Continue reading