the things I allow myself to think
are vague and soft
like furniture hidden under sheets
not ever sharp and clear
like a view through crystal glass
He ripped my dress and my bosom was exposed…he fondled me roughly then he pulled my bloomers down my thighs and
as the soft bird
This bragging, store-bought hero/ always ends right where I start/ and the morning sun means zero/ to the darkness in his heart.
The Silver Woman in the white room takes blood from the walls,
always shifting her gaze eternal
Dear Mr. Rolantz,
You are cordially invited to dinner in the Rob Roy
Dining Room at 7:00 p.m.. Formal Dress is required.
Miss. Abigail Florence
I can lead across the galaxy with my words, wrap you in moonlight and surround your soul with starfire.
I finally decided that he killed anyone who looked at that woman in what he felt was the wrong way.
I skip and hop and drag myself
through day after purple day
waiting for raspberry sorbet
to paint my grey skies blue
that familiar almond flavour
at the back of my throat
sears my eyes with heat
and blue drops reflecting
purple secrets to be told
exclusively in shattered images
that hover here and there and move
on again, inquiring persistently for
someone they used to know on this
planet, and sometimes…
“He’s the devil, Joe…The goddamned Devil.
I was walking over the Lakeland fells.
(I suppose I had been that way before
But never, I think, at spring lambing-time).
The grass pullulated with new life and,
They hit you like that first shot of Absinthe, sliding down your chest and igniting in your stomach. A few tears coming to your eyes for no particular reason.
Memories of places you’ve never been and …
The arms that held him were draped with burnt clothing and he could tell that at one time it must have been a wedding dress. She was here and on top of him, holding him down.
He looked up at the picture of Miss Abigail and wondered what she must have been like. She was definitely beautiful.
along many foul
cracked and broken
a dwarfish creature,