You dare come here unarmed and mindless?
Everything comes to the river at some stage.
Floating . . . on the tip of a madman’s tongue.
Time . . . every now and then take out a pinch and breathe it in real slow.
Done in oils. “Luna Blue” by Allan Harbour.
. . . she dances in the lonely desert of a man’s dry heart.
She trembles inside the silence of flesh vaults.
… tanned legs so beautiful they make your heart ache.
My love is like a red, red begonia. Doesn’t work.
The snake splits open, unpeeling its old self against an exposed root.