They name me Cleaver, though I am no hand,
but the patient edge of centuries,
a blade honed by the Southern swell,
by wind that tastes of iron and kelp.

I split the dolerite as kin are split —
not in malice, but in the slow necessity
of tide and time,
each fracture a journal of what was kept,
and what was carried away.

Below, the broth seethes —
foam thick as ghost‑milk,
stea...

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My cat Daisy is the baddest cat around,

She'll attack you so quick without making a sound,

She'll turn your face into a scratching post,

Take a shit and then lay on the remote,

You will just think it went missing,

Ask her and she'll pretend she's not listening,

And that's my cat Daisy,

She's fuckin' crazy,

Sick and twisted maybe,

Low key though she's a crybaby,

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in the dry grass next to The Bull

once every year the ground would shake

and scream “faster”

while our fingers grew sticky from the company we kept

here to win fish as golden as we wished

the beer

what of the gypsies

what of their king

what of the grave thrice danced around

finished with a pin?

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Twisted Maleficarum turned abomination

desperately seeking a return to one's humanity.

Expelling demons,

pumping passion like the blood that summoned them.

Bleeding tears, sweating fears

soaked in trepidation.

Summon some feeling

no time for healing

when paint is just pain with

twin pronged brush strokes.

Tattered, trying, tonal

...

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