tapping out prosody with an
empty tank – haha, this is
how Orwell felt in Paris.
the laugh must be forced.
bread and wine and cigarettes.
there is money for nothing
else. paper, a pen, maybe.
if not, one can always use blood,
soot from last week’s fire,
grime from the rind of a cheese.
there is a way; god knows all I have is will
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...