writing
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gull-gray waves and salted shorelinesthe bay of the english, anchors weighedalong the severed lines of blood ishistorycrawling art, sprawling armschilly walls and chilled bones, wrapped inrags curling smoke from parted lips as trafficlumbers bywaiting for a bus that apologizes whenclosed(but never when it’s late, hm)a culture so rich, it’s near religious.
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I am disconnected from the stars, struggling to breath through a riptide that wishes, insists, I drop my shade beyond the reach of Everything and subsist on weak milk and weathered leather until I am deposited before the End. My heart has been called too heavy, too full all of me too much for all
the baleful primal 