Poetry

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...