nosebleed's profile

The daily routine and palette of flavour and taste of the proud proletariat and the bashful bourgeois can tell through hasty taste You much about the temperament and taste of the individual Wake work sleep In this way we survey all that stood on these fields before us And make judgements on their motives, estimates on their ambitions Wake work sleep The calories they took in like orphans, the hours they fretted Over neighbourly calls of Xeroxed wisdom and second-hand insight   Wake ...

From what my extensive investigation can tell me, we still do not know much at all about young Mr. Mordrake. His crypt is in a lonely patch of dirt in the corner of the cemetery. Everybody knows Edward’s story, and the children are frightened of getting near the small, modest mortuary. They tell each other by the light of the gas lamp on cold, windy December nights that Edward’s ghost still prowls, seeking innocent souls to feed the face. Of course, no adults believe that his ghost still walk...

Alfred stepped from the doorway and looked around the room in awe. He had just awoken – in a concentric elevator that seemed to be made of tempered glass. When the magnetic doors had slid open, this room had appeared. Where was he? It had a large, concave dome, lit by a pale, fluorescent light. One wall came to a vertical edge and dropped to the tiled floor. Alfred approached it hesitantly. He couldn’t remember anything before he had fallen asleep in his apartment... And now here he was, stan...

Ozone Park is irregular in the dark A cacophony in Queens The flower shoppe it resurrects Resonates through my dreams The cars pass through the oesophagus that is The highway And pedestrians observe, conserve the reserve that is This little piece of peace in the east As an -urb it is accomplished Not ex- not in- but sub- The terracotta wishes of the projects Lined children’s blocks in the bath tub They cry concrete tears And curse the years That laid asbestos in their Plastered wombs Tarred v...

The story of the birth and subsequent death of Niccolo Paganini is indeed a curious one, and one that has bewildered sceptics too often as of late. The 57 years that lay between these two events are studied rigorously – and still no peace is surmised in the heads of those that refuse to believe the common public myth. Paganini was a virtuoso. His music – oh, his music! – was of an almost otherworldly quality. Paganini’s violin was a divine artefact, touched only by its player’s long and aust...