The art of drinking lemon bleach

POETRY

Whenever I don’t consider my life mundane enough to share it in a meandering blog post, nor so profane that it warrants anyone with time on their hands reading a short story, I search for fewer words to say more. Then a part of me reminds me I’m supposed to be a poet. How I became one is a matter of speculation. Perhaps because I find it hard to talk.


MATCHBOX

Monkey Black heart bleach2

Whether a match to a joint, or a candle to my own arse, the art of poetry is a way of swallowing a whole moment in life.

Not so fast, we just got here

POETRY

Edgar Marx PoemStill from Electric Dreams (1984)