Things are getting strange and beginning to heat up around here.
They have come and gone, mostly gone, and now evaporated in to little but angel dust.
A new idea for a short story is keeping me occupied. The Cove is the centre, the light flashing to reveal a hidden secret. But of what? I must keep racking my brain.
My Father has become little but a blue pause in his clattered box of selfish tools.
My thoughts after finishing are always so strange - so animal.
the pounding rain is echoing
my inner thoughts of rancid breath
and ribbon tied hair, lost
and hung like a naked child
in the tree of the dead.
in the island of souls that
glimpse nothing of the sun but learn
only of rain from their birth comes the
holy child, the delinquent.
His first steps mirror that of the dead
legs, crawling like alien tentacles
who's suckers grab on to his dark
fluid, brown eyes. He can see
no mountain moving for this pain;
it's grip firmly lodged in a caramel coated glaze.
he has had his fill of keys on hearts.