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A bird sleeps with
Your heart inside
A drugstore labyrinth

Sulfur and famine garner
Wishes on your
Mind, a landscaped
Winter garden you
Tread upon

Shattering the frozen flora
A pocket of time, unforseen

A massacre of color follows

Your chapped and burning heel

Stoke Trail Scent

Winter Sky,
An influx of memories.
I light a cigarette and move closer to the window.
I like it because snowflakes don’t fall from the sky,
The thousands of letters that I never received do.

Distant letters,
Written by distant hands,
Further away than the furthest clouds.

"Winter Sky"- Ismail Kadare (via

Linda  in LE VISIONNAIRE, 1998, photo Marcus Tomlinson

One mouth, a lone
Little fish
In shallow waters, floundering
For breath
Holding in
Each sacred gasp

I unscrew my ears.

I give them
to a deaf man with
wooly fragile hands
who wears
them as a necklace

I unscrew my eyes.

I give them to a blind woman,
Her small hands mold them on
White-bone cane, crooked
Smiling sugar, tells me she sees
Better without them
Her eyelids unfold like wings

I unscrew my mouth.

I slip it under
Your dreaming pillow, later on
I thieve it back and dig deep,
Bury it inside the sticky
Auburn soil out back, I etch
One word in the bark, the rest
Stay graved underneath
An Autumn Olive tree

You don’t listen to my whispers,
Why would you hear my cries?
I sit outside

as the sky breathes colder,
feeling the earth for snow.

Spaltan Catheter


“Malice in Wonderland” Christina Ricci shot by Mario Sorrenti for The Face February 1998
I was a victim of a series of accidents,” he said. He shrugged. “As are we all.

The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut (via
Sirens of Titan is just one of those books – you read it through the first time and you think it’s very loosely, casually written. You think the fact that everything suddenly makes such good sense at the end is almost accidental. And then you read it a few more times, simultaneously finding out more about writing yourself, and you realize what an absolute tour de force it was, making something as beautifully honed as that appear so casual.

Douglas Adams, on Kurt Vonnegut’s novel, The Sirens of Titan. (via


“I have stretched ropes from bell-tower to bell-tower; garlands from window to window; chains of gold from star to star, and I dance.”
Arthur Rimbaud, Illuminations

Sinking inexorably
a fraction of an inch
at a time

A glass clock hums
backwards a
childhood story
in my wrist

Smash it to blood fire,
they say.

Inside the pieces my
fragrant ghost peers out, I die
on that page
every time.
Pulled out from under,

Rasping Deireadh


Cheburashka (russian cartoon character) in St.Petersburg