. hugging dead girls .. hugging dead girls .
my offer - i'll deliver you small bits of minimalist prosery, you take them and open your head a little ... let your own story in. you tell those stories in your heads, behind the wheel, turning back your bed, sitting at your desk, we won't call it theft.
- be a whimsy -
... there's a dusty trail of slapped faces burnt homes broken intentions poverty an wastelands left behind her, tracks in cement and sand ...
"... it's all about the last word." Her eyes jittering, jam-citied, hyped ripe thing sitting shadowed. "Oh?" my dismissive passing wipe swipe. "Howz that?" She's really kranked fingers tapping tapping a small rivulet of sweat and she snaps a finger at that open-space where nobody sits. "Lemme tell you ...
as they have done
to the carbon caverns
top torn mountains
of our enterprise
so they do now
What a great portfolio! I'm fascinated by your artwork..
I grew up on the coast, literally; my back yard was Galveston Bay, and my grandfather had shrimp-boats. You'd think with all that exposure to the water... well nevertheless I still get creeped out, (sometimes) when I'm in deep water and can't see the bottom, especially if no one else is around. Primordial fears ? I guess the abyss has many faces - at least one for every human on the planet.