abstract poetry
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Sun saves moves and rays for some as a racing nun
Burns form him as from a mum
Fun runs in plum turn for each warmth won
Have you ever been so scared that you looked deep into your past and saw the things which couldn’t last as reality slips your grasp.
Dear Mama,
What makes a monster a monster?
Is it the piercing horns that protrude from each side of its head?
Or the fierce teeth that growl to deliver freight?
How blind are you?
Somewhere in russia?
So let the humming bird sing, if not,
then... Existence is no more than a flaw in the perferction of non-existence.
Imbecile.
That’s what they call me.
It’s not my fault
I’m occasionally late
And stubborn
And forgetful.
I sleep under the stars
between the troposphere and stratosphere
the clouds are not condensation
they are warmth and home
and I believe in them,
fairy cake and hot cocoa
saccharine illusion
