Category: Wonderings
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Dead Poetry
Skeleton hands bloom, holding her dry-blown red hair with fragile plastic.
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The Chair
I dreamed about the chair. Its black rattan legs scuttling as it edged its way closer, keeping to the shadows as nightmares do.
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Ultraviolence
Lana knows I’m a ruined Bel Air princess. We climb up behind the Hollywood sign and smoke her mother’s cigarettes, waiting for Charlie Manson to save us. Hot, flat days of fire and the Santa Anas tearing at ragged palm trees. Sat on the roof under a moon too big to bear, we pretend to read each other’s palms.…
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