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.

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.

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.

exquisite corpse #4

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
dust-smudged earth
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
the silence
of my hollow mind, I summoned
the last reserves
drain into
the unfortunate cat. 

WE DEFINE POETRY THUS

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.

the answer
is a question
the message
was translated into gibberish and left us cold. cold and alone like the giants of old