domestic muse

Do you know what lust means?

I hear it click click through night and day dreams. Eyes closed, red shoes...theres no place like home.

Something about pussy with no courage, girlish innocence, heartless men and vindictive hags. This is not my fairy tale.

My bed times tell different stories.

Where the garden has become over run I resort to herbicide. Sky blue bottle, it seems so idyllic; like volcanoes and mushroom clouds.

I carve out intention in small wooden pallets. Lay plans between planks and stone.