My Stories

First, it was the business, temperatures, string-pull switches, fingers drizzled in an upturned ta-ta. My own smell shivers before absolution. Then comes you injecting the box's drone with twinkles.

I walk on roads where brown words hang heavy on the trees, and bulbous blood-red berries crown over the winding avenues. Where the birds are packing up for long journeys, their discarded flakes of nestleaf drunkly swirl down the spinning whiffs. Where a badger snuffles out a hedge, takes one busy look, then flees the scene rustling through the thorns and fern. Where the low sun swipes a stripe of light along the scarlet hawlines and defies the bruised September sky And the last crazy wasps frantically search for a deposit before sundown, before death, woozing about in the fat rays. Where proud geldings stand high above a crisping pool of dying green, mirroring the chestnut of their auburn sheen. Big bursting sycamores proudly arabesque and rasp a tongue at their approaching nudity As my shadow darkens taupe dancing, angled into the briars, and I glide toward a season of breaths, glistening in an early frost.

The silver slits ten thousand years Of sun-soaked sod To fuel the fires of Ireland. Her sons, now warm, will tell the tale Of ancients weaned on bog and field. The golden lines etched clear through time

You ve been here a while now. Your skin, burnt black and sagging, stretched and bursting holes, belies the length of your repose. Your feathers over...