of a son
A landay The first line left him trembling, sweaty; his racing heart convulsed at the second, longer line When I have a creative insight, there is a high. I think back in the day, I made music as much as I did because it made me feel so good. I think you could argue that… Continue reading Lines, or: The healthy kind
A musette Her toes pushing away her clothes Needed that fix; please! she pleaded Muses benumbed by wine bruises
My 1st copla real One point at the back of my head That is where all the caffeine goes I quiver, held up by a thread Until thick dark ambrosia flows Without which I'd rather be dead Lethargy and feebleness spread My mind convulsing in dry throes Running late is what I most dread While… Continue reading Coffee, or: Ambrosia
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