Poetry

It’s the 1% of the 1% now who sleep, dream, and, in a reversal that few predicted, make a great show of doing their own laundry. They fawn over their Egyptian carbon

Martin was born to jiggle and he did. Soundly he slept on the ultra-soft mattress of manmade beliefs, making sense where there was none, and that was fun. Each of his many hairs

All after pleasures as I rid one day, My horse and I, both tir’d, bodie and minde, With full crie of affections, quite astray, I took up the next inne I could

A bird is trapped in my house, a crow, a starling. I do not know birds. And he keeps battering himself against the windows. Then, like any bird in a poem or song,