Bitter the sun when it is in Hades High fans meaning nothing keep the heat down but the nitre keeps burning So glows the gloss and high sheen on the skin Foreheads exhibit thought though the eyes are crossed and at night, butterflies i

In the tumbled-down now there's too much material, culled from pretty boys that don't notice me and tattooed ones that do, and I'm certain there's at least one dreamer soaking eyes into me who knows all the twisted lyrics invoking pretty little horses.

I can hear soft rain

I texted a wickety-split, tax-declaring New York-based international escort, a moonlighting, all-pro Kit, whose day job on Wall Street yields no bonus.

Ben woke in a black mood. His head was ready to explode and his throat was raw

the gambling priest stands in the morning fog/red moon hangs in the sky/the army of seven houses marches over the hill

for Tracy ThornYou don't need a song about fixed stars, you needa reason to be glad stars are here. Themoon's always been around, but not always like the friend you want,until now. Don't throw it all away becauseyou are too sad to care. You've come into your own. Allthings…

the ones that have seen the other seasons, let them set up the track

We walk with our heads down, maybe 15 of us, moving under a sun that has grown to encompass everything. Everything is in hues of orange and red like a bloody eyeball on fire.

Perhaps she’s also a do-gooder. One of those socially conscious, change-the-world type girls complete with a never ending supply of life’s own contagious enthusiasm.

When I was a boy and just out of seminary school, I went to a Doors concert and heard Jim Morrison sing his song ‘Soft Parade’ – it changed my life.

I turn the corner and come face to face with Ed, who's stark naked at the kitchen sink. He chugs a glass of hot tap water from a measuring cup and belches loudly. “Good morning,” he says, as he pisses in the sink. “I drink 6 cups of hot tap…

There's one graveyard for the part-timers and another for the full-timers. Ours is a little nicer, but we're still all going to hell. Do you remember St. Petersburg? No, you're memory's not that good.

His eyes begin to glisten like hot green wax pooling around the wick of a pretty little candle.

I wonder what it would be like to dog-paddle in the middle of the ocean. I wonder how Jean Auguste Ingres got the flesh tones for “Odalisque.” I wonder if bees have dreams.