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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
rattle, roll another
barrel of ambitious joy into
my wine glass. Half a
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.
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.
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.
A man is cut in half by the window.
poor sod bled to death on his new cat
which, traumatised, fled the scene.
It was not long before she reached
a giant fish, seven stories high, its head embedded in the earth
each gasp a ground of
shakes and shires in the
calling upon the wind, the dirt, the moon
hung low in the sky like fruit
leaking the sap of significance.
into the gnarled bark of its life
with twisted ricochetting through
of my hollow mind, I summoned
the last reserves
the unfortunate cat.
harrowing and pain-ridden with taxes, tescos and the M5 corridor, rendered into 256,000 pixels. what is more appropriate than the detuned radio of ambiguous body forms that litter the airwaves over skies and underground, static on your radio, noise neverlasting - IT IS A CAT and we are merely tending the night-stalker that regularly breaks into the dawn chorus of drunkards serenading the pilchards with sweet sticky spilages flowing freely from between her fractured shards of mind.
is a question
was translated into gibberish and left us cold. cold and alone like the giants of old
of the imagination’s puzzling encounters. lift us above and beyond our monochrome minutes accelerating into a lake. it is not colour merely but and orgy of monastic inhibitions repainted as mosaic. lifer, one hard thrust and
with a cry
the night lives in triangles and the morning dies in squares. these tessellating figments drive us further to madness, chipping away at pixelated purposes and porpoises, becoming
which leaves no room for checklists or paragraphs but plenty for paraphrasing, ripping quotes wholesale from savages and dirty uncles. this far, but no father.
An elegant filing system is
something entirely unheard of in
our tumbling tower.
are songs of smoke
and star systems, lining
the inside of your throat
coated with sticky fluid
that drives men strange,
or antelopes that
devour orange elephants in
sticky sweet concoctions
reminding him of childhood treats
and little trinkets
porpoises all the more
promising, as the sun arcs
towards a terminal
the resounding silence
The night is violent, city owls
glides soundlessly between blocks
which thud, driving
away the demons who
curse our very moral fibres
built from bran flakes and five 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
motorway. I’m sitting
still now. no really I am
struggling to resist
the pull, the allure of
infinite roads and worlds to
enfold with hands so nimble
- but everything aches.
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