Category: Twiglets
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For Twiglet #101
– an American Sentence It was a lifetime, bagged and boxed, rehoused, and given to charity. Twiglet #101 “Brick-by-Brick“
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The Rise and Fall of Yucking
The Rise and Fall of Yucking Bile He’s yucking in the grocery aisles, yucking leeks and yucking kale, and wailing o’Yuck’o at brussels sprouts and beans green as a May spring day, and in the meat aisle, yucking liver, yucking fish, and then he retches at the sight of toilet brushes Twiglet #97…
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Based on a Poem Title “Of Mere Being” by Wallace Stevens
Based on a Poem Title “Of Mere Being’ by Wallace Stevens I remember being so young — being bewildered by scent. Dad could smell snow coming. And rain. It was a scent like white closing in on hills, or a shock of winter stars falling. Or the closing white of linen sheets on a firm…
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Twiglet #94
Mislaid Before we were steps, we were stones. Still. Stones. We carried feet and lemon bitter song, flourished in the dark, sturdy as the sun. We carried skin and bones, and hopes and faith, and a cold candle’s haze. Still. Steps. Laid out flat. Overgrown. We are returned to stone. for Twiglet #94
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For Twiglet #88
Ivy Mum says ivy in moonlight isn’t the strangling beast that it is by day — not so, is what I say. It’s a summer-green sheet, a weep and leaf up the walls. It leans like a rickety trap, fills every leftover space with its nameless sag, and once planted, it’s forever. And Mum says…
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Off-Season for Miz Quickly
Winter at Fjellebroen Havn It clings. The ice is thick on the masts, thick in ropey skeins, and the riggings whine with the singing wind. Straight out of the north. It’s come. It’s lost. Diamond hard. It bites. Feels white as bone, this snow howling across our backs. The air is a carnival swirl. And…
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Twiglet #86
games we played games with little words, round and small as pebbles. Poop, she said and fell into laughter. never mind the extra O. we kept it spare as change. For Twiglets #86
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for Twiglet #78
Those Puzzles Is this what it feels like to be human — like a Battle Royale with dodgy coordination and reflexes, or an abandoned house or when you stay on a bus until its last stop, or you realise that you’re not Rambo, and you’re not epic, and you’re wood, not iron. Being human,…
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for Twiglet #77
Going Nowhere The best part of being lost is not knowing you’re lost. And I’m going nowhere. The horizon is timid, and it’s lost its colour. Rain clings to the leaves. I might go watch the signets. They’re 2-weeks old today. for Twiglet #77
It's Still Life 