Are your sparks still flying?
What’s so bad with meaningless? Don’t you ever dance with the lights off to seething radio
Surveillance only becomes a problem when we start to look back into the cameras.
The underground station in the rain torments the dead and the living with role reversals and sci-fi.

The culture of potatoes having hitherto proved a most remunerating crop
I thought it would be a profitable speculation for us to engage in it if we could obtain land on easy terms.
Did you really not see the guy on the floor with his cash hand out? Are you really changeless? Are these the true habits of greatness? Is your comedy a kind of twilight? Did you ever meet Catullus?

In the Survey did you see the art of her monologue now? This is the twitching hour I guess. There’s an obdurate stink in the gift horses’ mouth. What about the other kinds? Are you inventing great scars over the hill? Are giants coming?

You looked exhilarated when that sun exploded.
Who lives outside of your drastic reservations?
Do you ever see the stars above?
Who was the last person you dreamed of?

Last Christmas the lights seemed less invented and more friendly.

I remember demons with holes in their pockets. Writers, alas, are given wounds. Nothing more. So the equation chits scar tissue and black discs.

By Richard Marshall