Dump site

I could take you to a dump site,
and still, the things we’d find there
you’d turn into a thousand stories.

Because it’s nothing to do with
the places I choose with you,
it’s the you that makes it

less of a dump.



Imagine a world in dreams
where living was just a

passing thought in an afternoon daydream
but living would feel eternally dizzy-durzy

wrong and you wake into another
fake imaginarium of your own.

Images of buildings split into
three, hang from string in the

sky, tilting upside down down down
into black misted black.

And you’ll keep going back there
hoping for more but all you’ll

find is another joke on you,
naked in a street full of faces.


Katharine Hepburn

It’s breaking dawn,
the sun spills into dark craters
and the wind is a lie,
when Katharine Hepburn decides
to give it all up
to sell flowers
on Mars.

The sky stays clear she’s heard,
just the right amount for the sun
to help the buds turn into
tulips into carnations into lilies.

But then she remembers
there is no oxygen on Mars,
and her dream that pollen
should float into the nostrils of her punters,
will be as false as the idea
that a dead movie star
may grow flowers
on a planet with no air.