March 2010
16 posts
Man alive, when you call, I can watch myself fall, like a penny in a tin can. And by God, it got warm, like an electric storm, let loose in a frying pan.
I was the colour of clay, on that damnable day, when you set the wet sky to chewing, but man alive, when you call, just to stall and be stalled, to see the warp and the woof undoing.
We’d stand with our feet, all leaden and concrete, in...
