Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The rules, the roots in criss-cross boughs.
Give me my money back, this tin
Don't make a fuss, your boughs are
Mine aren't, waiting's my only chance
for a flight out of here.
Newton forgot the Pine,
And I can't be blamed for it.
Chewy like mild wombat afternoons,
Chewy, like tinned carelessness,
Twenty roots criss-cross on yellow.
Boughs of sweet nothings
Tangled in a sour hug.