She rubbed as hard as she could,
just to feel.
The light on the balcony
The room, momentarily
with the opening,
of Pale Rider.
She would watch it on repeat
to get out of doing the washing up.
A mainstream women’s publisher emailed with generic feedback:
“We received many pieces from our readers,
which were beautifully atmospheric,
but in which nothing happened.”
as hard as she could.
Archived it in a swipe, and
TK Maxx for tights,
of a Saturday night.
Walking along the shore, the
pale moon full of lore,
Silky nylon, and diaphanous
no-pull, cotton denier, dusky
and barely there.
An Ontology of Roses
The reality was
that when I looked at him
I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d be.
I like to be plucked in a certain way you see
depending upon the time of day
but then it’s all in the smell of a neck anyway.
The truth is that some men know how to kiss.
They just know.
Others kiss with a closed mouth
because they can’t let go.
Some gobble you up
or drown you out.
But when you’ve found the right kiss,
every kiss is an eternal death.
An ontology of roses,
haunts my neck.
Pummelling things said.
retains a constant temperature.
(Some people need drama
in order to exist, so they create it.)
I sit in a pool.
Algae tide like flash-
A lily pad flannel,
All we can do is itemise things.
a bar of gold.
Write this down—
you never knew him.
Violet laughter shot into the room via the two-and-a-half-inch gap generously yielded by the suicide prevention windows in the award-winning, architect-designed, university halls I rather reluctantly found myself in. (I've always had a thing about Wisconsin.) Hen nights, pissheads, ravers, and druggies ensconced outside the Co-Op. "Can you spare any change, love?"
Why Would I Fantasise? I am not a philosopher. You came to me in a dream. Already, I digress. Subject + verb + object (direct). You and your syntax. You are a verb that requires many objects. I . W...