My Poems

whoever came up with the idea that communication could be an art was probably identifiably genius. and died young

to Andy Blake

Zipperclad

In belted shoes

And overjoyed

To hear the news

They hurry home

At break of day

To flush their pointless thoughts away

Their hands are small

Their hearts are big

They build their nests

And eat their figs

They light a fire

To singe their hair

Because they’re balls of flesh

Without a care.