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Sunday, 17 April 2016. To make one small jar you will need. Half a large bunch of parsley, leaves removed from stalks. Not Just A Pretty Plate.

I am after the joyous symphony. I am the last line, three inches before the hole in the dark. I do the same thing over again-. Until i am lifted by your tired hand. Faster than falling into love. There is a furious pulse.

Show me your best iron fists, those galloping. Truths for you, Mariska, when I put to picture. Your withering tendrils coiled to neck of. A shovel that will serve both our dowry. And ticket off of this island. To head for subways, your un-ironed pillow case.