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.

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.