The Rhymelessness of Orange
The tangerine played hard to get, Full-pipped and bursting ’til it wept In half a drop – and in the bed it Let itself, still pressurised, Implode. And now, I see the eyes (Tomorrow’s seeds) come whining. Lungs segment and shine with Pithy veins of difficult. The reeling brains unsqueeze A
Placebo
A book belonging to Alexander Smoakes was open on the table, and he was staring at a word he didn’t know. Smoakes became angry, the seeping kind. He did not feel himself getting angry, but became it, because this was the kind of seeping anger you cannot notice in yourself at all. It bit at [&h
