it happens as a quickening
except against a wall. my dry
apartment walls, pulsing. a bulge,
a squirm. like the cover of some
horror movie from my childhood,
it presses on my memory and
on my walls. oh, the throb and groan.
it keeps us all awake, I think. the more still
the room, the worse the haunt. but how else
does one sleep? and I'm so tired.
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...