Become a member Receive our newsletter
Member Login
Remember Me
We have velvet theories about boys becoming men, the mysteries of plumbing ...
The lights in the street are gold or white or blue.
The primitive grass says nothing of what’s to come. ...
a Dusky Moor Hen drinks some of its home
She’s a delicate rose Found in flowery prose And I’m not her. ...
Do my ears look big in this? You’d tell me if they did, Right? Cause my forearm clashes with my pants. ...
I’m listening to Hurt, which Johnny Cash now sings: the needle’s in his voice, a ghost lends him its wings, and even with the clash ...
The wind rhymes with the sound of their pants
brushing against their legs. The music must shift
to a higher register, whenever the diesel trains roar. ...
Next »
« Previous