The Obelisk
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This, my sixteenth volume of narrative poems, is what you might call a mixed bag. If you bought this in a lolly shop, you would find the usual sickly pink sugary ones, the sour teddies, and the chocolate smoothies. But wriggling around the bottom of the bag would be some that defied description, black and glutinous, with names like dark dreams and shadowy freakshows. Unless you held on tightly these would seek to escape from the bag and go for your throat. They exist on the periphery of horrible, or skate along the landscape of myth. They contain characters not in control of their own destimy,...
This, my sixteenth volume of narrative poems, is what you might call a mixed bag. If you bought this in a lolly shop, you would find the usual sickly pink sugary ones, the sour teddies, and the chocolate smoothies. But wriggling around the bottom of the bag would be some that defied description, black and glutinous, with names like dark dreams and shadowy freakshows. Unless you held on tightly these would seek to escape from the bag and go for your throat. They exist on the periphery of horrible, or skate along the landscape of myth. They contain characters not in control of their own destimy, and are most comfortable in dark rooms by dim reading lamps, where they can invade the reader's brain and create the most havoc. If you're not extra careful they will escape to your bedroom and hide beneath your pillow, ready to insinuate themselves into your dreams. If you enjoy dreadful thrills, read this in the dark....
