Solitude is the gift that leaves but noble few of us as ingrates.
you crest fallen in medias res,failed by parent-teacher conference,failed by bonaparte and hitler, and all the likely suspects,now resting christmas eve quiet,now sitting in mcdonalds at two am,not answering your phone
8:35 express to flinders,nary a murmur nor whisper,we silent as cemetaryrightfully know:you don't disrespect the dead.
Is it true as Chesterton says that the hammered mangod has more paradoxes and builds better roads, or is it just a fancy of the times that when she googles 'small SUV with style', she commands a quadrillion electrons who obey quite happily, and do they obey because they serve her or themselves?
Two words worse than most,burn victim,or skin graft,or korean karaoke,and yet we have all threeparked on this corner of paradise,belting it out this quandong,skin all ripped rye rubber,why'd a sparkwhy'd a petroleumburn the doughboythe subway smelland the little neck bones on tramsof intimate motions,out of windows, into doorways,a sparrow whistle, a hullo,admiration, sweet denigration,my boy, … Continue reading swanston st 1
Like tautology, revenge is needlessly reflexive, destroying its criteria of success in the pursuit of it.
A short collection of poetry and microfiction to enjoy at your leisure. Real sharp stuff, millennial attention span suited and all. Download here