If it was easy, everyone would be doing it. A lump in the throat. I might be addicted to the internet.

Though I feel sick I am not ill. Playing games with my frame of mind. Keeps me tossing and turning when wide awake. As I delve deep into. My most precious dream state. How many times do I have to remind myself. To step away from the window. And will cross again if we must. Together stepping like a human net. Resurrecting life by conquering death.

Sunday, 8 January 2017. Indisposed in her sketchbook, tracing the tentacled yew tree. 8220;What of the Undermoon? .

Saturday, 12 November 2011. Is mainly poetry with a hint of photography and my tumblr. Site is mainly photography with a hint of poetry. I hope you get a few minutes to pop over and have a look around - comments are always much appreciated.

Poetic Offshoots from the Scottish Jungle. Last week the Nazis were busy, stripping flesh and muscle from bone,. Flamethrowers burned travellers in crammed train compartments. I watched the skins go in the heat, then the veins bubble and flare,. Muscle and sinew blacken then vaporise like film on fire. This week, they were back. They crammed in through the front door. Shuffling shoulder to shoulder filling my grubby house.