There is crying tonight. You can sense it. Somewhere beneath the rain, the sound of the rain and the water flowing over the blocked drains. It’s the saddest kind of crying – the type not meant for anyone. There is an old man...
Category - Poem
A dance of the morning bus of the sea of the broken spacebar of the wind in the trees of factory-farmed chickens pecking of teenage sex of raised voices of stinging slaps of piss on old leather shoes of the candle that guttered...