Pop the cork (or screw cap), strap your boots on, it's prose poetry time (never learned how to tell a story proper) on the gypsy ship. The waves are high, it smells like hops eating thunderstorms and sometimes desperate drunken silly rhymes. Here will be old & older, new and nearly new poetry, prose, blogs, writing, rambling, drunken scrawling (usually on arms), forgotten memories and fantasies from beneath a shot glass, bottom of the sea floor to searing up into desperate blue-gold quiet skies.
If you fall off the ship, I can't be held responsible.
If you fall off the ship, I can't be held responsible.
Enjoy the ride.
