Lungfulls of dusk, bandit water hitting our soles. The moon has its halo on. Chainsaw, sing elsewhere: I know this south-facing hillside. Pressure releases my springtime purgative, and I wrap my bulbs in burlap. Dear, I am surrendering my eye patch. Beware what you tell me. I am no good at hushes, edge.
Thumb-Wrestling the Bureaucrat The only time I’ve won at sport, ever. We writhe, wince and I take home the dimes. He simply has no head for the small joust. Bickering with the Kiln-Stoker Fine, I know nothing of real heat and my clothes aren’t covered in coal-dust. But sometimes a girl needs to amble in […]