The song that pulses wet through the veined blinds on your window – left open. It is the fingers that trace the hollow of your neck, the...

It’s late. It’s very late. The jungle has eaten the stars. Canopies stretched like beggar’s hands up, up into the abyss, carrying back...

Asked to share secrets like a slaughter house swine is asked to shed blood. Ruminating in the shit that makes up the rich man’s garden...