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I love fucked-up people

Deities, what enchantment have we conjured

In the dance of glances, their eyes intertwine,

Spunkrat and Night Owl are on IRC (Internet Relay Chat). Circa 1997.

Flying though the darkness Soaring upon a wicked drunkenness She throws herself upon the bench Amongst the dinner’s midnight stench

“How long has it been?” “Just over a year” “I can’t believe you’re here” “Neither can I…”

Guess who’s back? She’s back, and we’re locking lips in the damn kitchen.

The chaos of the party was as bewildering as a flock of sheep performing a synchronized dance number.

She flies silently

Sodit was a negative person. Not that he was unhappy, mind you, because Sodit didn’t know any better.

She preferred to make love under strobe lights

I open the gate at a quarter to the hour. She could turn up early. Halfway up the path, I glance backwards over my shoulder. No sign yet.

I met a girl In a sunflower skirt

In the belly of the maelstrom, I’m caught in a psychedelic dance of swirling lights, liquid shapes, and a cacophony that could drown out the devil himself.

Ponsonby Road in 1974 was a strange and dangerous place – if you were a biker kid.

They called it the “Wild West Coast”. Wild beaches, wild weather, wild people.