Cherrypicked stories

The Caterpillar Speaks in Tongues I can see each segment converse with the next, a Newton's Cradle of green pulp, a susurrus and hum of tiny hairs crossing and uncrossing like rods in water-divination.

"So which one is he? The tall dark one by the Gents? That blond one by the fruit machine? Coast looks over to where Lynn is pointing. Lynn nudges Faye, raising her left eyebrow. "It'll be the ugly one, the ugliest guy on the row, Faye says, lighting a cigarette.

Heliotrope. Today I came to the place where I buried you. It is a fragrant perch and this year after all the rains tadpoles swim against its twisting shadow. Wild fennel clings to the banks

Something nasty lurks beneath the Coln.

'Extra strong. Try one ' you won't regret it.'

She embraces courtship at my flank, With sails so broad she could never become seaworthy,

Don't stop being exasperated by stubborn computers, cupboard shortages, forgtten errands. When your cheeks rise scarlet from the bone it looks like passion. Don't stop questioning my social white lies, that left unchecked

"Hello?" I say, the vocal epitome of cool, because I'm sure as hell not cool physically right now.

A poem. About why I dislike lipstick. An seminar excercise.