What Crones Up Crows Drown

And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical, they shall ever never rust. Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed. Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning…

To The BE of Things

You didn’t. I did. We aren’t. * So now sway and tilt and droop, I will not. * No more, Lull, mum, quiet, Little sounds. * I’m going, to the Be of things. * Big, brazen, beautifully bazaar. * No more Twinkled eyes, prancing pain and panicked,  pleasing. But barefoot and bold, boomingly, blissful un-bashful- beats! *…