A moth squeaking like a dog's arse.

A warm smile in the afternoon.

And afraid of the sound of footsteps.

And him with a pigeon on his head.

And neither does the dog.

And spends most days swatting flies.

And there's so much I'll never sing.

Before taking a deep breath.

Being herself was never an option.

Covering themselves with night.

Deep inside his loneliness God resides.

Hearing the bells of St Marks.

I'll wait till I hear the screams.

She only tolerated the world.

Loud as a two-fisted chord.

Naked but for a hat and sitting in a canoe.

Others started a rumour.

Pain is a solitary lament.

Settle over the hill in dreams.

Someone has taken my towel.

Take that bird off his neck.

The green stuff's taken flight.

The horseman's removable erection.

The long morning alive with wings.

The one about his cock being a kipper.

The sarong coloured with lapis lazuli.

The way I've let myself go.

To smell the bread of day.

Would you like garlic bread with that?