He smells of earth and birth and sex. Of sweat and spice.
Buoyant. Naked. Weightless. I rise and roll...
Even the broken clock is right twice a day.
Alpha, strange and beautiful: the hollowing
“As long as I’ve got a biscuit, she’s got half.”
Blood of a Martyred Saint.
Not so light, this breeze.
To the naked eye, we are fucking...
Mother Earth spreads her legs for long overdue worship.
Lonely singles fall victim to Valentine's conspiracy.
A silent scream. A fine mess. A cruel sting.
Angels landed seven feet from our front door.
Just a Sunday afternoon, fresh from the bath.
Unexpected invitation breaks woman's icy resolve.
