If all that remained on my screen was her filth, I would, at worst, still stand proud of a morn. And as fade became thrill, I'd sing the praises of bleach & the bleed of her film. If all that remained was the trace of her, the print or the stain of the milk … Continue reading If Whitman Sang Alabama.
took a stroll out onto the longsands. tried to make a wish, tried to make myself a plan. found a pebble it had a hole right through. wrote a poem. gonna send them both to you. now, it may mean something or nothing much to you - but, girl, i can imbue it … Continue reading a poem & a pebble.
“Come hither” is the pylon’s dare. Its hum is above, beyond & everywhere. “God forgot this pallid scratch of scrubland.” "So, stare me down,” I say. It shrugs its shoulders & bares its teeth. It tongues the air. It thumbs me. Unrelenting, this autumnal glare: low sun & tree bark, hidden. There is … Continue reading Come Hither.
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