BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Sweeney Todd

I can promise not a hair’s breadth betwixt life and bereft. A big something for the weekend, sir? If it ain’t kitten in the pie, it will be worse, I surmise. This precariousness of my barber’s chair. That skill of mine to really polish a string of basement pearls. I hear how hair is cut from ear to ear. In a dietary reworking: I love Mrs Lovett’s pies made from meat at MacDonald’s. The big sleep of a short back and sides is my favourite read. Demonology of ruthless styles. Once I have flipped, the tresses stand on end in more ways than can be undone. Continue reading “Mike Ferguson: three poems” →