Cherrypicked stories
Chillin
Chillin Linking arms on the porch swing sipping Bourbon in a Julep minty frozen trickles Spanish Mossing down the glass Sugar Magnolia Your bare legged Beauregard cousin cosying up crickets blurring minutes into heated Cypress time
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- 1472 reads
arthur
ARTHUR You will not find me tinkering in the workshop or watching from the platform in the rain, but listen for me when the whistle blows, remember, when you hear the steam train. Clickety clack, clickety clack,
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- 479 reads
Hauteville (island home of Victor Hugo)
A French girl with the complexion Of skimmed milk Fills the corners of the rooms
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- 1049 reads
I'm just not that in to you anymore (sorry)(Reply)
I'm just not that in to you anymore (sorry)(Reply) When I look at you My intestines Sink Into the floor And my balls retract Due to the fact That. I'm just not that in to You anymore
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- 820 reads
You're Just Not That Into Me Are You?
You're Just Not That Into Me Are You? When you look at me The shine dissipates From your eyes Did I scrub it out? And make them dull? Look at me! Over here! Not over there! Not at that girl
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- 869 reads
Escape
You trick me with your proposition, bend my soft-boned knees and mould me into an amenable position. Lace my will tight. Securely have me tethered to your height and do your best to ride on me, prostrate,
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- 1194 reads
Persepolis
Persepolis We live alone in the high mountains, where time ends, at least it seems so. This is the landscape of dreams, this is the firmament of delights. It was lost, once it was lost: and if I came this way again
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- 869 reads
Lesser Antillean Grackle
British bird enthusiast seeks a rarity in the Dominican Republic
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- 1122 reads
I am surprised we can take what we want from the world.
I'm surprised we can watch programmes.
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- 1967 reads
Just an observation
A speed poem written on a train using the word 'quality'
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- 1326 reads
Cherries for Breakfast
Poised tense against Serrated edges of my teeth
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- 1221 reads
Part 6
Blood runs from her mouth and nose. Her skin has turned new colours. She is going, and you with her.
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- 811 reads
The back of my brain is bored
The back of my brain is bored Now that I know writing on camp mats is allowed I collect the little black bugs that nub my collarbone and hold them snug. My face under the coloured canvas is enchanted.
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- 1540 reads
The Tragedy of Albert E
round eyes observing so much life softly clothed So slow to talk drinking of good jewish milk, with Bread chill wind and spring grass the sun-orange cat, his whole nation just centuries from Egypt,
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- 1635 reads
An Atheist Family Christmas
Silent night, I thought. Silent day. Silent life.
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- 1962 reads
Sally Behind the Writing
I am sorry, my fellow implausible redhead, to bind you in ballpoint. Blame the designer who muted your patchwork dress, made your carnival colours pastel and drew lines inviting writing across your limbs.
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- 809 reads
What I Want Is Not Available To Me No Matter How Unfair I Feel That Is
The walk to the castle made me sweat
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- 801 reads
El Güey de San Itario
Dear Mom: I took your advice about cheating on my husband.
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- 429 reads