Sucked from the incoherent roar of the streets, the steamy interior of Randall’s is quiet as breath, enfolds Moe gently as arms. The musky scent of books is a balm to soothe the… Read More
Explosions of light Parabolas arcing from water . Great still bodies Serve as mirrors To clone a placid sky . A tornado rising Of wing feathers . Great choking masses In Tumultous Gossiping… Read More
Our Madrigals Winsome and graceless Bring seasons of fractured glass. In netted skirts Gaily whirling, our rose petal nipples Float adrift in a fleshy sea. Cock crows, crows shriek A cackle… Read More
Here’s an interesting question I’ve never really answered, not even to myself if I’m honest… Why do you write? The answer? Escapology. First and foremost (and don’t hate me for the unutterable bluntness… Read More
The saw-edge screech of a lone crow razors the silence. Tangled in her hair from neck to ankles she awakes, screaming. Struggles violently in the dirt, fighting against the hanks of fine filaments… Read More
