We are entitled to love poor people hung in autumn: Is there room for another hundred bodies in this field to rest like       coal? I’d lower them like gold leaves.  I wish they were fig leaves       Or I wish they were an abandoned plant No longer clamoring for seasons.  I wish they didn’t hurry goodbye,… [Read More]

We havoc like other people, but we return in poopwear.  As if parasailing Is the way of the clouds.  Tonsils have burned out our loved holes in the       snatch of the straw, beaten on top of roots of the trees. And we said to our wives: go on giving bitches to people like us       for… [Read More]