She’d been sitting On such pretty hot days she sits and makes lists. Out her box window, she watches the café, the bent backed couples, coughing up quiet lettuce,

A time before the books in brown paper bags and the relentless search on the internet for 'sluts' who were only a bus ride away.

He looked like a child’s drawing of a man; too much brown crayon. His milk bottle legs poked out from underneath his too short trousers, the snail trail scars on his shell fists,

Why do you do this to me? I give you my heart and you pull away You don't talk unless it's about how bad your life is Don't you see what I see? You are funny and smart and really quite cute

In the certain palace a peasant kneels and explains that the regent’s callous tithing is putting undue strain on local artists.

Classic Dunthorne: a series of medium words vibrating lightly: a power-shower’s poor temperature control, a stopped golden pocket watch, a list of life ambitions with one item ticked.

This is not the dark intestine. The serpent split at the belly and we spilt into paradise, half-jellied, unspined:

my thoughts keep me alive, we two will always together survive, they come and go at random, confusing sometimes at tandom. we go to places and roam, we also love to at home,