Everything Comes Home, My Mother Used To

I'm Politically Inclined Towards The Left, But I Don't Like To Be In Anyone's Gang; I'm A Bit Of A Loose Cannon.

In My Dreams I Gorge On Chocolates, I Roll In Chocolates, And Their Texture Is Not Brittle But Soft As Flesh, Like A Thousand Mouths On My Body, Devouring Me In Fluttering Small Bites. To Die Beneath Their Tender Gluttony Seems The Culmination Of Every Temptation I Have Ever Known.

The Process Of Writing Is A Little Like Madness, A Kind Of Possession Not Altogether Benign.

Children Are Knives, My Mother Once Said. They Don’t Mean To, But They Cut. And Yet We Cling To Them, Don’t We, We Clasp Them Until The Blood Flows.

The Process Of Giving Is Without Limits.