You like autumn?  Don’t call it fall.  You like fog wet dog boggy footpaths mud?  Fur scarf hat gloves separating love’s touch.  Cider with cinnamon vomit stinks I think warm beer the only fit drink for an English man.  Cinnamon satisfies women but don’t call it fall.  It’s autumn mists mellow fruitfulness hopelessness dreariness missing your touch too much don’t call it fall.  California knows no bitter winter touch what is autumn to you?  Sadness last verbal touch telephone call isn’t much don’t call again.  Beginnings told me of multiple men my long drinking winter began don’t call it fall.

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experimental prose poetry

words and pictures by jack collier

jackcollier7@talktalk.net