I'll cry out when I'm in painbut I'll smile too becauseit means people will hear meand on the lines of my old scarsI'll write poetry and then they'll ..
Later.Perhaps tomorrow.The next day like it was tomorrowThen a week built of spare changefor a few fizzy moments.Maybe. Then later.Later never remembe..
Within the sphere of my head, I am safe, thoughthere could be a number of things that I am running away from.A stuffed flamingo on a shelf, watches th..
Death in a bag and ocean floor symptomsfor the afterlife of fame.Fiction derives from the common day.Some days you have to run away with your everyday..
Alone, like famine in a languageI travel.Footsteps barely clinging to the groundin the wake of frail parched shadowsduring a morning less dawnlike an ..
I think of that distance which will not in a roadbut for the cracks of pebbles and stones on a grey wildand I contemplate on all the places that I hav..
In this world, idealism is only small thing.These towns will surrender,masquerading love before a fermenting mooneven as the heart of the last jukebox..
From the window, a Paris breeze unkempt,as she lingers within the naked hourkeeping the famished streets waiting.Her gentleman is fatigue.Her pocketbo..
We're all running out of poetryinscribing pale imitations of wordsto the left of our hearts.I wonder if I can ever seethe white from the dark again.It..