Of course, I'm not a proper poet like Bill or Sam. They're going to be fucking famous when they're discovered.Anyway, here it is:'Twas on a groovy vas...'s side, Where psychedelic art had dyedThe fucking flowers that blow;Demurest of the tabby kind, The huffish Dylan reclined, Gazed on the lake below.Of course, it's not finished yet. But it's about our cat, Dylan, who died last year back in Reigate. And Bill said you've always got to get the word 'fuck' into a poem somehow. That way people know. She had her own key now and let herself in; she found the teacher in the living room, watching a movie and sipping a glass of wine.That afternoon, after leaving the yoga studio, Sara had finally worked up the nerve to break up with her boyfriend. She felt she owed it to him to at least do it in person, so they arranged to have lunch at a quiet restaurant. Sara hoped that in a public place he wouldn’t make a scene, and for the most part he took it well. Several times he asked for an explanation. More

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