A lil black phone with my poems in

Gina Wants to Die of Old Age I can’t hear Bon Jovi without being seventeen again, singing, “Gina wants to die of old age,” l...

Plinky Songs You sing of sirens, riding the tides of green tea soft myths for hard days. Books on guns open, strummed with lul...

Music as ritual 1. Chant as we exit this coiling labyrinth path, fire transform us. 2. Herald the May Queen— flowers tumble ...

Butt, Butt, Butt Music I. Trumpets from the rear— cherubs clamber up moon-flesh, the bass line quivers. II. Sheet music ripples, inked acr...

Don't deep fry the gulls First beach hut picnic, sun’s warmth on our skin, A spread laid out, fresh breezes fill the air. Sa...

Not My Scene Not my scene — but my best mate turned thirteen and bought me for my birthday, tickets to New Kids on the Block. ...

The Choir Ineffable We are four-part harmony, in theory. In practice, we know four lines— maximum— of any given song. B...