Whose marrow now, the bone-white birch, still remembers the weight of wings that were never meant to keep ghosts, only borrow them like library books, overdue. Come dawn, the river spits out all our drowned names, in perfect alphabetical order,...

"Oh dash it all!" cried he, in tones most desolate. "Pray tell me, chaps—have you observed, my toddy’s wayward fate?""...before the friar's gateit vanished, quite without a trace, like empire’s fading gleam, one sip too short of paradise—""But now it’s...

Sip, mon amour, her emerald lips whisper,taste the moon dissolved in my tongue.The glass tilts—a slow, seductive shiver,as absinthe drips, thick and young.Ah, cette fee... she coils ‘round my spine,her breath—licorice, fire, and rue.The spoon’s silver teeth leave sugar...

...burning the old sod down.Watching the embers crawllike slow drunken lordsacross the blackening field.A proper British bonfire, that—whilst I piss on the roses. And God saved the hedgehogwho mistook my pyrefor some pagan ritual—Like Sunday roast gone Methodist,with pamphlets for...