I'll send you postcards
from every broken, burnt...
These rocky mountains are now hers;
flowers - subtle myths of childhood...
We were 5 and 7
when mornings tasted...
I reside on the other side of darkness,
where she rests her head amongst dying...
How am I supposed to feel?
People and voices keep on telling me...
To share the same feelings with another
as if sharing the same vein, attached...
Hello, everyone.
You can call me Charlie...
I can recall the frigid months
and the way the harsh wind...
He's zipped up your ribcage and swore
never to touch it again...
He crushed the butt of his
cigarette into the sun-bleached...
A constant poetical struggle
is to stroll through barren, forsaken stations...
I like to watch my father chopping vegetables,
maybe for a Sunday stir fry or a hot lamb curry...