The steeple tree is always falling today in the wood your hand the flower walk and the long east of it, the last one Trish the bar four pints distress bit lip call Yes, I know it's, Yes taffy-pink sky, orange stripe leaning up, it stutters hers, the place is, evenfall & the bird-perch pole wipe the hair slowly across bare and my skin a garment No, it's ok, I'm ok a tightness gathering "heaven blotted region."
So many relationships like bad business partnerships: green bottles falling from walls; messages stuck in bottles rotating in great gyres; swallows never at home North or South. (Anti-Confessional? — It’s a fashionable trend just now and yet what is it not to confess, when we claim authorship?)
Suburbia’s flat evenness suffocates (but I’ve repeated this so many times and I’m still here!). We need to find the cracks in which to grow, in which to place, our errant thoughts like rude whispers in a darkened room, and nobody about to hear you anyway!
We express ourselves well in silence but me, I gyrate, not quite on one side or the other, a kind of even fullness, or, that’s what I like to think, let’s get this straight: I’m an uncouth wind against plains that offer no obstacles. Better to wear me that way — it saves the snap under pressure.