The face of God in a stinging nettle and all the little boys and girls cry ‘I'm stung.' Sensations and perverse ideas of voyeurism Of beaches, hidden summers ...
Gentle fleck runs through the novel of the night Desert yet burns desolate by the exile Breath passes through the void silence seems voiceless by the verse th...
This is the last week I see my reflection on your morning eyes. The last time I draw hope from the vibrations of your voice. The last weekend we breathe each o...
Their camper van was ready to go A countryside trip was their aim The final destination they did not know But their enjoyment was very plain They pulled up ne...
The green roads that end in the forest Are strewn with white goose feathers this June, Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest To show his track. ...
