Poison In The Ink


In Spain, you can sit on park benches without being a child molester

Artists are often good with their hands, an important skill

In the act of self-homicide


If an ambulance driver in Italy

Never picked up a pen; in his hand, he said

It turned from a needle into a bottomless hunger

He died of starvation in a desert of remembered paintings


There is writing where writers have written about writers

Writing where we have gotten lost inside our heads

Or quite possibly each other’s


Published at Soft Cartel