Elvis may not have loved the Trafford Centre although it has countless places to buy burgers and fried chicken, and a fortune teller, pushed into an opulent box like a delicate paperweight,
i know why the caged bird smokes a perfect square, backlit, framed in rouged, back alley neon. you exhale, from your small, open window, smoke winding itself around the shoulders,
two is such a lonely number expectation, is like a butterfly sunning kaleidoscope wings in a sunlit woodland on the first day of spring. reality, is like waking alone