my body now a softer rhyme to his, now echo, assonance; his touch a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
In his dark room he is finally alone with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
Pray for the immortal soul of rock 'n' roll.
Today I am going to kill something. Anything.
A man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
The clocks slid back an hour and stole light from my life.
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself.
And, of course, unmendable rain fell to the bleak streets.