Without My Wounds, Who Was I? My

I'm Always Looking For Something New And Interesting To Say. And It Can't Be Something I'm Directly Experiencing.

The Sound Of Her Laughter Was Sticky As Sap, The Smell Of Night-blooming Jasmine Soft As A Milk Bath.

Don't Turn Over The Rocks If You Don't Want To See The Pale Creatures Who Live Under Them.

His Voice Was Cloves And Nightingales, It Took Us To Spice Markets In The Celebs, We Drifted With Him On A Houseboat Beyond The Coral Sea. We Were Like Cobras Following A Reed Flute.

Just Because A Poet Said Something Didn’t Mean It Was True, Only That It Sounded Good.