You Were My Home, Mother. I Had

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

Poppies Bleed Petals Of Sheer Excess. You And I, This Sweet Battle Ground.

If This Was A Sandalwood Pyre She Would Have Thrown Herself In And This Paper She'd Become Would Have Caught Fire And She And Him Could Sail Away Like Two Birds.

I Emitted Some Civetlike Female Stink, A Distinct Perfume Of Sexual Wanting, That He Had Followed To Find Me Here In The Dark.

A Cliche Is Everything You've Ever Heard Of.