The tinny voices of news broadcasts float over the dry evening air. Their outputs melding together in an electrical babble, resounding somewhere seemingly far off, somewhere in the distance.

who cares if its true or not

true accounts from a local bar girl

The Sorrow When needs become cravings, Then passion is what cradles the soul, Love then counts the cost of every heartbeat, Every savoured moment of tenderness and gasp of desire.

inspiration point poem....

A poem about teaching a raven Poe.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife, even one of those battered old knives with cracked, brown wooden handles they gave you in The Pie Shop when you collected your pie and mash or whatever.