No ridin ridin
feather tickin puckin
tuckin luckin tween
only dead cat stench
O bled! O poppy red!
from the nights'
all eyes and years
a shoulder roll
yon reverse boot
that green-tinged corn beef
I'd promised my landlady not to spontaneously type here until all the rent is caught up, PIF, and an adroit avatar input rather than this LOCH NESS gargoylism proffered to us'in newbees.
However a torrent of sustained irony keeps me hanging on, e.g.: my capital F failure as a poet, journalist, short story writer, vignette writer, all of it, the poet, pauper, pawn and ....
Even now the apparent waste and near worthlessness of my 24 month earnstwhile endeavor, or so:…Continue
bring your own Dom
Jim will read aloud excerpts from his St.Robe Fiction anticipating good vibes.
He reports (that) he's opted to wear a madras flannel toga.
No derringers on garters, please!