Avalanche

The tears of 27 years throw down your hands and make love to me. Be my companion in the setting sun. Lonely and adrift out here amongst the deaths of intimacy with your melting ice cream. I'm all yours and set me on fire before going. Crying out and running out of time from somewhere deep down from the place that no place in polite conversation. Horrible things do not seem the problem; it is the absence of good things that is the problem.

The Colour of Love

She made marbles in the sunshine all day. Mixed up with the colours of the sand and the tears ran across the sand to meet the blood of a stranger and made love. The language of all the strange was incommunicado to everyone say making marbles across the beach.  The beach stank of other peoples tears all dried up the sun. Everybody thought if they kept crying someone would come and save them. The colour of love was unmade in the sands of time. Time carried nothing to them; there were no magic bottles with little messages pleading for help and to give them a purpose. The purpose lay on the beach in the hands of the marble makers. She took out her eyes and cleaned them and put them back in and saw what was happening and took out a pen.