An essay rejecting Cohen's claim that poetry is not controlled or commanded by its creator.
There is a time in every child’s life when magic ceases to exist. A youthful disappointment when one’s own father reveals the intricacies of his card tricks...
It’s night-time. What an awful night. I am driving a black car that’s racing dizzyingly down a path that spirals down around a mountain. I can’t seem to stop despite the fact that I’m pushing the brake pedal.
That was the top of the walk when he said: My house is a decayed house And mist clotted about the trees in the valley
There is a fine line between fiction and reality, and it is here that truth resides. It covers no ground, appropriates no names and establishes no rights. All it does is demarcate, pulling apart one idea from another.
There are two suns that rise every morning One scorching red and the other its reflection Skirting and hiding behind clouds and sky
A deep silence settled in the loft, spreading out to fill the corners. And within the darkness stood a man, his body rigid and erect, his gaze turned towards the city.