December 2009
3 posts
A serial in zillions of parts. Maybe.
You ever walk on the sand? If you live where I live, an hour away from the beach by the train, then it’s a ridiculous question, but still – you ever walk on the sand? Think about that sand, so soft between your toes. This isn’t a story about beaches, or sand, or even toes, although it starts with sand, and ends with beaches, and may in fact go via toes, although that is something I am not...
Untrue, but fun: Poem
Manners maketh the man
So spake the mater
Who, by the way
Has no manors. My father does.
Two, in fact.
But no concept of politeness.
And this is odd
Because
He had
The best tutors money could buy.
I think my mother saw that manors maketh the man
And figured she’d be a bigamist.
Pain poem, naff as ever
Pain is life And blood, and love And all the things We fear in the dark It is teacher And friend And comfort and joy A poor life this If full of care We have no time To fall down stairs.