Looking at fields, makes me feel roast full, I think, thighs pressed against ice porcelain in the toilets of a pub in Victoria.
I can’t remember being born, and no one else can remember it either. Not even your mother. Or your mother’s mother. In fact, your father and your mother, are busy wrapping you in blankets,
I will write you no poems to tell you how alarming familiarity is. No ways to tell about knee plate earthquakes, how your ego grew tannin roses. All mirrors are motorways
Some oh fuck moments are stone silent they don't crack the sound barrier before they meet the sea,