Cherrypicked stories

Buffalo's Southern Island It is a place that exists more in the minds of those who live there, than anywhere else. You won't ever see the designation for it on any map reference. But, you will hear

I return from Nice, staked with fear. All the terrors of every b-movie? My scientist friend must be crazy. Is the train hot? The train is hot. Sunlight is doing a bombing run on the London of my eyes. Flashes,

9/5/6

Editted. Still extremely silly though.

MY FATHER'S BOOTS I saw them standing there in the corner, a pair of rubber fireman's boots. The top cuff on each boot was rolled down, revealing the brown canvass lining inside. The rest of the boots were made of shiny black rubber, with twin yellow lines circling the calf area and a yellow stripe where the hard rubber sole met the upper shoe of the boot. They were a little dusty and looked sort of forlorn sitting there in the corner of my mother's basement, at 24 Ramona Ave., in Buffalo, N.Y..

Every 14th of February, whether or not I myself must plough through drifts of scented envelopes I like to recline, with some fortified wine, and spare a rare thought, unbidden, unsought for the legions of scowl-ridden, lovelorn misanthropes.

The ceiling holds me in a dry awake. I love theologising sleep, the blue tack mark non interuption where no phone rings and no one speaks. Snug in my mountain sleeping bag I hold the torch up,

Falling out of love She does well

Concrete poetry is never a particularly pleasant thing to find in front of you, and when it's being written by a young man who is clearly convinced that he has discovered the meaning of life and/or love, it's doubly bad...