Disconcerting conversations
The Gypsy works his disabled tongue...
From this hillside
Covered in carnivorous roses...
If I were an ocelot
I'd spend my days catching flies...
I form these words
Beneath oceans...
Pretty little dolly
All on her own...
No more glass
Through which we view...
Hiding in a night
Cracked like glass...
What if it was bloodstained hands that created...
A stained glass image illuminated by a malformed...
A poisoned fog they prayed for
Comes rolling from the lake...
Mourning the death of spiders
In a mausoleum made of maggots...
Gravedigger dig deep
And to soothe my soul...
I do so wonder... about the wolf
His sharp teeth dripping red...