In dreams ice scorches
In your own fog your outstretched fingers hone in on a spec of hopelight even though you know it's gonna be gone before you can say stay.
Where in the shed are the hidden tins? Rose decorated round ones given by an auntie, the rusty one with punctures carrying white goods receipts and solid odd nails and your favourite, the one with a brick headed dog on the lid holding within its great thick mouth love letters, tied carefully with gardening twine.
Althea, sad and spread like dead on fraying blankets her mother bought, dampened them, till Joshua the man from the other side of the hill, scraped up the dregs with his loving hands... flat like irons.
Dress up dress up come out and witness the show.......... put on fanciful dress, embellish what's already beautiful, doll up.
Katherine Droughtnought, age an irrelevance seeks /w.l.t.m companions, friends or creeps to share pandemonium. Babel. Dingy bed fellows with rubber spines need not apply.
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