Poetry

Give me firm ground to hold me still, And purest brine to drown until, The sky falls off of its silvery peg, And crashes down upon my head.

Joy in conversation lacked and then had  It’s nice to be with you  And out of myself

When thoughts never stop  Moments sometimes tinge with an off-coloured brown  Like old cigarettes  Or paper that’s been burnt at the sides. Moments  All white and crisp  Until the flaming end Of rolled up paper and tobacco  Preys on the corners edge Threatening to let it all go Up

Little pumps in bed, Little repeats at brek

It’s nice to not need anything To sit softly in the hangover haze  slow and fuzzy     happenings around me

Hat floating  in the air  cradling a body not there  Especially yours  Majestic mystery of mastery nestled in finely kept roses  That (probably) smell the same as when you were here.   Is it wrong?  A museum made of house A patchwork of was and is and may still be  Are

They carved a cross into the cheek of the heathen child. As he grew it formed a jagged X, a focal point for the sadist’s treasure map that was his face.

My sadness is a whale, A beautiful old tyrant, She’s a mass in the void, A shimmering giant...