280 10 4
|
. . . as long as I am doing, death is not happening
|
2122411
|
the farmhouse
of your childhood
lies
|
114110
|
For Hector it was animals. Rats, dogs, fish, and quite often horses – sometimes even lions. But for Achilles, it was always dead bodies.
|
102722
|
Her memory was a faded pastiche of the past, and indeed the present sat uneasily in the middle of the dreams that governed her mind; so it was that often she would forget the day, the time, the year.
|
95900
|
Rosea plays a bohemian plainsong for the cosmonauts among us, while her fuzzy apple hips spit glitter, spin strobes: pink shades of pantyline flicker; lip-licked neon hues scrape strings in B sharp, a gloomy clue.
|
103600
|
We dig up conscience-tunnels, pluck the play-flower of present choice for fun, run aground, past this dimly lit, though not to be underestimated, stage, and open door upon empty door, to nothing, for the lights are a pulse flickering in the perceptual per
|
100600
|
Can you see the rut? Can you dig your fingers into the flesh?
|
102100
|
Rosey streaks through the city, dragging a flooded umbrella.
|
101720
|
She dips a toothpick in ink, running prick over paper, simply to prove herself wrong.
|
89720
|
Darkness on my mind
doesn't make me blind.
|
94580
|
Beautiful, he thinks, as he taps the ash of his cigarette over the balcony, but this is not good enough.
|
98444
|
unwrapping
the gauze from her wrists....
|
204878
|
Momentarily Winston’s thoughts muddled again. He felt his fingers twitch, a physical sensation which seemed to accompany any recollection from the past. Most of his memories were moments he’d reiterated so many times during his stay in the Ministry of Lov
|
