coddled on the northeast coast as an autumn guest, we sweated a weekend out between her sheets until, the colour of almost - boiled albumen, i became. haltwhistle©reeves2019
she wrote a poem once and maybe i'm deluded but i thought it was for me. she wrote - oh - a thousand poems in her time and none but this one were for me. i looked into her grayed eyes and that day they were cameras to me. i looked at her lips … Continue reading cameras to me
James in black. Drainpipes, black. Second-best shirts; buttoned to the throat, Dylan and Dylon-black. Fingernails stained, if not from clothes dye, then from varnish, black. He wore double you double you two jackboots: zip-up, calf-high, inch of sole, steel toed, black. Hair, cheap, black. He would sometimes sport a pink TRB button, a lapelled safety … Continue reading Inch of Sole/Punk As Fuck.
i still find her on the sill in the dying birthday flowers - near to faded, pretty in the thirsty vase. her stray hair in the bath, her scrawl on some scrap paper - her receipt, screwed in denim pocket and breathe her for a moment, forever, her surprising sillage as I pass the chair she … Continue reading her ghost.
some things [take a long time to stick] plus some things [take a long time to slip] equals something, something, something... alive to give
She sat at the kitchen table with a wine glass and all the what ifs, what weres and what could’ve beens floated in the glass and the bread began to rise. She thought about the summer of 1956. But actually it was difficult to picture much more than a blur of an album of photographs. … Continue reading The knowledge of now.