Do you see the clip-in feathers in my hair, pink like birds in lakes How about the heeled boots, I wear them everywhere How about this...

Mother tongue You must think me horrid to take you and make you cockney. Every time me mouth opens, the brain mixes the vowels, and I...

A felt tip marker isn’t only for drawing it glides on the tiny bumps, the follicles that form on my lash line, filling, every, single,...

Take a glass of wine and stand on the table Look down at strangers, into their eyes that look up this fable, and you say something...