She was a little girl
with star prints all over her
long wavy hair.

The words
tattooed all over her skin
were nonsense.

Her storybook was
the size of her roof.

The only thing
holding everything together
was her imagination.

The older she
got everything faded
or became tiny.

Star prints turned
to ashes in her gray hair.

Her storybook
was as tiny as
a piece of rice.

Everyone could
read the words
tattooed on her skin.

So everything
became way too hidden.

Yet imagination
was still somewhere
deep inside.

She just has to
fight all the aura of
the horror harder.

The giraffe walking
through the sand.

He’s trying not to sink.

He blows out  

bubblegum that
looks like jellyfish.

He caught
a dreadful sight.

A snake
strangling a starfish.

He wanted to
do something for it.

Instead he just
stood there like
a mast on a ship.

An ocean wave
swallowed the
starfish and snake
like a vitamin.

Later when the
giraffe was sleeping
the starfish crawled up
and down his back.

The back of a
turtle is a
dream catcher.

The biggest I’ve
ever seen.

There are no
holes in it.

So the dreams
cannot get out.

Cobweb carving
on his back.

The turtle walks
in its sleep.

His head and
legs like cactus.

He spins
through the sand.

He feels like
a skipped rock.

The wind
will not mock.

A woman walks
down the street as children
throw mud at her.

Her mouth a trench.

Her head shaved.

She’s hardly dressed.

No one dares look
in her eyes though.

There are dreams
there that children
are jealous of.

The houses are
round like thimbles.

Steam pours out
like coffee cups.  

The shutters stick
out like birds beaks.  

The wind shuffles
the houses about.

Some of the
houses tip over.

You’ll be guessing
in vain though.

There are no
souls underneath.

Only bodies in
dresses and tuxedos.

You should never
write at night.

The tunnel then
is often too tight.

You’ll experience
an awful fright.

You might have to
give up your sight.

It’s easier to be
positive in the light.

You taunt with
all your might.


No ones allowed to cut
up anyone out of spite

Your sighs fly
lower than a kite.

So no matter what time
you were right to write.

She sold
her teeth.

She sold
her hair.

Now she’s
only a tunnel.

No one knows
what’s left.

She has only
one concern.

There’s
kindness there.

Buried six
feet deep.

She can’t
look anymore.

The streets
before her
seem to shuffle.

Are there
souls underneath
those roofs?

Can you guess
for just a buck?

All the
houses tip over.

There isn’t
a single soul underneath
but loads of bodies.