Album: 12/Desk

Exam rooms are good places to write bad poems.

They are quiet,

endlessly regular.

Like staring into a crystal or a forest.



Album: 11/Prediction

After the dog scratched (screeching) his (historians) ears all night (nightmarish), I should be up to the line of my words.

But the computer wants to write outstretched whenever I write out.

I guess I could turn this off, but it wants me to write counterrevolution, thirty-fourth, officially, buttermilk.


Album: 5/Ice

Selfish. She has sealed the place she spoke of. The spool at the centre of the last breathing sheaf.

She knew there was one place left before they swept her, her trinkets and all her faithless rivals into the yard. She knew there was one real Atlantis in the flood.