Bait the Lines

<Audio> Whimsy clouds, shorn from a peeling sky, winsome shred the blue across this dome, and in mischief call the lost souls...

Out of the wood Bury me at high tide Privy thoughts Tips of the tongue Time to go All Wrapped Up Lighthouse Rock Hazy daisy da...

  <Audio> Dark child years ago  I shot a crow. That black anvil.  That wince is frozen still. An icicle stabbing nail. ...

<Audio> It is the deathbed that we fear,    not the final lullaby akin to sleep. In cot sides do not nurse me dear, ...

Check out my latest article on Swansea News Network http://swanseanewsnetwork.org/nature/late-june/

<Audio> little lad's candle cat eyes flickering on the earthen floor of a privy in the privet in a winter dark and cold...

<Audio> I knew the slag-tips, my memory child. Knew them as I knew the back of my bed. Then they craned away some hardcore, a...