May 2013
1 post
June 2012
42 posts
Table corpse #6
The exquisite corpse will drink
up the iniquity of the
chair leg of power; the
woodcutter then proceeded to
construct
ADDITIONAL
PYLONS
The curse rang throughout
the dustbins, chattering in
the cobbled streets.
Wandering by myself I
came across a wizard who
had no magic abilities,
but only a cracked wooden spoon,
stirs, endlessly through the dust.
Fortunately, it was not
me. I fled to the
priest, who told me
“There is no God.”
Table corpse #5
The exquisite corpse will drink
in glass of succulent lemonade
to cure what ails
the sorrowful whale. When
storms seep out of teacups, soak
the delicious tendrils of
Cthulhu’s caress covers
her arms in gravy
won’t float.
Sorrow is a jigsaw
missing pieces. I lost the centre
of the map, and couldn’t
suck the thing quick
Before you pop.
You cannot and/or will not
stop
for carnival rides, nor
can the frozen carousel animals escape.
Table corpse #4
The exquisite corpse will drink
in the musky atmosphere,
burping frogs and diamonds
into endless spirals of night
that scratch at the
mellotron of the
handless, deaf guy
appreciating the irony
of orange blueberries,
fuschia tangerines, and
the delicious nectar
that consumed my palate
in a most unceremonious fashion.
Similarly, the Queen wandered
in
to the underground
where we trade in air for aggravation
and leave our meaningless
minds. Forever.
Table corpse #3
The exquisite corpse will drink
sunny delight in Belgium,
while snorkling in Corfu.
It was an eager
beaver, a happy
little animal in the woods
knowing nothing of their
impending doom
and baking fudge cake
in the trenches, 2 rats and a sugar cube
; dinner was served.
And what a feast!
What a day of necrophilia!
I could have gone on all week.
But her bones
were coral, weathered and cracked
by the ravages
of the sea-gypsies.
Table corpse #2
The exquisite corpse will drink
And fill the chalice of
A king with
nothing to lose;
deciding to give up radio
four, in order to chase away
The hounds of the
psycho-rockabillies from
Texas.
There are no bridges to Canada
and the natives are enraged.
The cut my eyes into quarters, sold
off my clothing for scraps
of flesh suitable for
a dwarf of average proportions
Because in the land of dwarves,
was not a fondue.
Table corpse #1
The exquisite corpse will drink
you under the table, soaked
in the spirits of our
heathen forefathers, those that
had lost their keys
in one of their many pockets
nestled with rat babies and
mumbling pipes, in the space between
our bed and the wall
covered entirely in
peaches.
Later,
watching trains,
and tracking droplets through each wave
after endless wave of
shrimp. Terrible, terrible
terrible, terrible lie.
travelling corpse #3
They’re shifting Bristol, piece by piece
winding through the veins
of small children, when will it
peel their skin? I’d like to know
how their grinding gears function underneath.
(I was unconscious when
she slipped it in me
draining my lustful soul out through
my nostrils)
I quake,
rattle, roll another
barrel of ambitious joy into
my wine glass. Half a
vine-plant.
My soup bowl
overflowing I turn to face
Chris, who is dipping a chip in
sour milk, a symbol of
these sorry times,
and the lethargy
awakes a mountain troll, who
upon clocking her guests
sets the table.
Exquisite corpse #10
An elegant filing system is
impossible, too many fingers in the
deepest chasms of the night
where giants once roamed -
a black stone, a white
noose. All of which
hints that hanging
gardens with tinkling waterfalls
that drive one to distraction
like unalphabetised records
they groaned to be
growing tall with pain
and the suffering of a nation. Alas,
it was out of our hands
so we severed our fingers,
a ritual sublime
secret symbols, hidden
in memory never lived.
Exquisite corpse #8
History goes too fast
some do say but not I for
time’s a bitter mistress, dry and
fitful in the stolen grasp of the night
shudders and stops. What
sun-baked allegory dries up
in all this star-fired
sun glazed bakery display,
such a welcome sight on this sweet crazy say.
But who said that anyway?
They all denied
just how much they
cut, of lust’s infinite array
displayed before grey eyes,
the sore limb of
her integrity -
shattered, like her pelvis
into stars.
travelling corpse #2
Traditionally, Manchester
is hard to catch. However
if you look carefully the
words all blend together and you can
see my house from the top of this
rampart, where the sheep judge
passes bovine justice upon us
with an impassive face.
The widest
teeth in all the lands
although not quite so much as to
rollerskate down a mountain.
Destruction of self and
the sense of identity that we foolishly carry
in buckets to our aunts’ houses
where we unloaded
our restless tongues,
lick ice cream from the clock face,
a tradition kept within the
closed ranks of temperament.
Exquisite corpse #7
The first words spoken, always gold
glister like fish specks
floating on the surface
of Titan, the little giant that
gobbled the world up and gape
out into the void.
Atom soup, I think
too much and too little
and too slow, yet
to stutter syllables to sunrise
break bones to create my own
nourishing skin cream,
a delicious balm
of artichoke and lime,
sublime distortions of culinary
courtesy, crushing taste within
a tumbler of gin.
The drinker only -
Exquisite corpse #6
A man is cut in half by the window
culled from chaos and conformity into
magic beans! One for every flavour of the mind;
a veritable taste explosion!
i dipped my tongue in the potion
and immediately it turned into a snake
and whispered, silver glossed and
throbbing, THROBBING!
It dies away, leaving the thick silence
a mucus on the face of time.
I was revolted.
Each inch of leopard skin flabby with
sunny delight, the nectar of the old gods
who have abandoned their decorum
and now are paradise birds.
Exquisite corpse #5
The night is violent, city owls
glide soundlessly between blocks
which thud, driving
away the demons who
curse our very moral fibres
built from bran flakes and 5 a day
it’s the most blissful wooded hideaway
but watch for monsters.
They sneak, velvet soft,
through the molehills of
modern mediocrity, miles of
dark motorway. I’m sitting
still now. No I really am
struggling to resist
the pull, the allure of
infinite roads and worlds to
unfold with hands so nimble
- but everything aches.
travelling corpse #1
Ogre, Crumpets and coco couldn’t contain themselves on the drive home. They spent two hours at service stations. One of those hours was dedicated to dead bodies/poetry.
What happened in Whitehaven?
she asked him, weary of his
endless whinging, hoping
for toffee. The seagull
stopped, sugar-crash-falling,
spiralling down into the bottomless well of
Heinz chicken soup. So far so
drowned, liquid filling me like
orange liquid.
I find the fervoured energy
to rip my clothes off and
paint my soul the colour of
nine elephant horses;
a sloth observes; a goat
consumes; a sow
seeks, tentatively a new
chocolate cake, but finds only
DEATH!
which is of course and end
but also a trap for onions.
