top of page



Pour me another one, please.
I raked all the leaves in the rain and now I’m sore.
My primal fear involves living in a dark forest
made up of half-sentences and embryonic cabbages.
I was frolicking with my fairy godmother the other night
when we were suddenly seized by a chronic inflammation of unbelief.
The old postage stamps are licked. The eggs are beaten.
I look for redemption in comfort food and the coming of Santa.
A line was forming outside the darkened auditorium last night
just as the faithful began to chant, “The worst is yet to come!”
I focus on the flowers in the vase in the living room stinking up the house.
I press one for Armageddon, two for Transformation, three for Total Collapse.
There is no way to get your secret back from the secret-stealer.
The soul is mysterious they tell me. Put it in front of a camera and it explodes.
And so on we go, watching the clean underwear dry, feeling the money grow
inside us, knowing sooner or later our source network will expose our files.

 Terence Winch

bottom of page