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Do not talk to me, when you see me in the street. I'm with my mummy.
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In freezing bleakness I call out to myself, twice. Amidst sweet dog-song.
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Picture every day as your last day to dress up (for eternity).
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Pesto Pasta Guy is luckily unaware of cosmic fist-bumps.
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For years rusted shut, a heart left out in the rain balances the scales.
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In the chase of night, motel knuckles knock too late: dawn's buried itself.
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Permitted to leave, circumambulation stirs ambivalent ways.
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What you do not know lies somewhere on the inside. Open up and see.
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Roots rooting seasons. Body sacks sup the coffee. The stroganoff blues.
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Dive into the folds, annihilation awaits Prig floating in the pool.
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Rise from shore to sky, evaporated opera. Dissolve in water.
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A door-whisperer, hiding the resident truth, praise for the shut door.
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Emerald gardens tilt towards the dying sun, as visitors fall.
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Fingers guide this one, digits point with urgency. Idiot for sale.
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Smashed into living. Empty my bags, architects! Get out of the house!
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Support systems down, mum and dad are orphans now. Sob amongst yourself.
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Resolute harness. Familial bonds transplant hair. Daughter risen high.
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Inheritance chokes, released like flatulent guests. Regret at all cost.
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Homes built for shelter; technologies buried low. She swallowed a cat.
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Brawling figures judge, fear fearing a fearful drug. All symbols deranged.
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Now’s the spider’s turn: A facile reduction, up the chelicerae.
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The village hall waits, all the while nothing happens. There is so much pain.
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Web-bound surveillance, karmic cycle's swift return, silk-spinner draws near.
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Definitely, the Pencilman’s virility. Certainly it is.
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With Obsidian, fault's with the candidate, or there's no fault at all.
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Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.
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Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?
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Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.
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Alchemical balls: swearing’s not big or clever, even in your head.
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The red-flag woman, tweed-sleeved arm outstretched, spraying: "dogs are mist's princes".
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Car-to-car living. Lemonade fever dreams fail. Give back my money.
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Dark across the brow, the fields are met by fingers scratching in the dirt.
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The world went to pot, because you did not donate to the fundraiser.
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Pulped sardines on bread, shelter for the yuppie bones, huddled in the hall.
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The decks creak with a litany of transgressions. Judgement mans the helm.
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Worlds as yet untapped, backwash over this charcoal (quantum forest sketch).
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See the Nightingale whirr to where the air is thin. Wait for what will be.
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Don't give me all that "la-di-da-di-da", I'm sick of people like you.
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Retching, I'm pulled back to the frozen underpass, animals snorting.
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Voices from the past scatter through the open door, that you left ajar.
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Listen to the sound of stilts tottering across the banquet table.
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Eyes play on pages, photos in the unlit hall. Fell asleep again.
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Bulging bloodshot eyes, born too soon to be shuttered. A throng congregates.
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Silent aftermath of cats nurtured by insects. The dust of ages.
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Engaged Listening Skills For Workplace Efficiency: It's a fragile snare.
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Ignore the voices and listen to the morning. Give another chance.
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In coveted chair, microdosing ethanol, salad haunts me still.
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O hungry hunter, climb the stairs of the taste buds, and eat the city!
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Dad's breathy whistle Mists the cool chrome trim of the Austin A40.
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Chris, a name mispissed, eliciting unconcern from authority.
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Time is a phantom, unmasked in the final chime, as nothing at all.
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Impenetrable street of limitless bakers, bread on top of bread.
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Colour comes to bear, On the things that we have lost, Naked in wonder.
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Unveiled hues observed. Francesca's work reassigned. Truth seen in strange light.
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Canvas visions bloom, chaos amidst the tableaux, the gallery creaks.
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Telephone dial up audiobook with fragments by Brittney Fleming
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Boxes and grey chairs. Silent faces, piled up limbs. Thursday's grim demise.
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At waking’s threshold, lifted by the breathing land, cell-bound dreams take flight.
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Hospital preaching, shadows gulping down root beer, rolling on and on.
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Mysteries converge,
Whimsy and truth intertwine,
Brownies in the depths.
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It’s easy to be the best version of yourself with Into the Moss.
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The speed of a dream; bridge of broken umbrellas dogs the miracle.
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Pearlescent eye patch drifting on ahead to rest. Dinosaur ink drips.
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Dolo Uldolsted, gathered in his own netting: Sea of tatami.
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All _____ things to come. All _____ things to come, welcome. All _____ things to come.
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Trough peak trough peak trough, peak trough peak trough peak trough peak, trough peak trough peak trough.
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Behind sludge grey drapes, I'm a little lady leaking refrigerant.
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Stav opens the book. Wait, what? No one knows that book! Mike closes the book.
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Subtle hums of distant flight, melodic murmurs weave through scattered notes, Rippling streams entwine with cosmic breezes, crafting celestial songs, Endless chords converge, the universe sighs in serene rapture.
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A bishop got brained. His bones lay at the crossroad. A passage through time.
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The Eotogram sat frail in my sister's grasp. I held it better.
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Floodlit streets converge, embracing only matter.Bonds form in turmoil.
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Quiescent within, error and delusion gone. Now burst into flames.
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Lost shells, Broadway dreams. Cracked hearts yearning in the crowd, echoes in the wash.
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Do not ride gently over that sheer precipice; squeal like a piglet.
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Languid jet pack dreams. Men screaming at men again, passing verbal gas.
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Across the water, as the Mini Milks are mulched; is that brother's boat?
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Dad yolked in a box. The dehumidifier prepares the repast.
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S.M.U.R.F.: Horribly tattooed on the floating mantelpiece.
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Dragged out of a ditch by the conscious yellow drip. Pass the carbolic.
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A coach on the earth, a horse braying in the sky. Rise the sewer man.
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Crisp tread on powder. Hail the falling of the clouds. Brass band requiem.
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A stink lingers on, as muntjacs pause to draw blood. Spring waits for the kill.
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A dress rehearsal. Antique shop howls of the past. Omelette bathed in tea.
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A life's brief passage. The background becomes foreground. Let the purring rest.
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Mouthing dormant hams, Todd's foot circles awkwardly. Trains tunnel through veins.
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Chalk rains down on cars. So the blindfold is unpacked. The conveyor belt...
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The non-existent. Head in a supernova. Apoplectic sighs.
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Better read quickly; when matches wink at paper, the flames will catch on.
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The quill bobs gaily in the inkwell's rancid swill. It draws in sleep's curls.
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In a world of slops, bread drips from the mezzanine. A lift helps you fall.
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No one is safe from the retro-fining tough love, or jellied meltdowns.
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A wolf roams inside, leeching away the goodness, while Tansin awaits.
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Mother stands fast, watching the colours smear down the bib of concrete.
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A slippy wry pig, resting on a butcher's lip, senses the day's up.
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The pilot light’s out. Ocean spray from a dark glow. Emulsion deceit.
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Rabbit on a leash, racing the inquisitive on the cold wet floor.
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Awash with rhythms, syllables thrown out of sight. Noise hums from afar.
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Falling through the hatch into a jellied moment, laughter girds the crowd.
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Donahue messed up his appointment in Utah. But he’s some damp notes.
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Factory princes chalk up your doorstep while you sleep. It's just a frog cult.
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Go into the sea and read out the lab's results. You will get a bun.
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The awe is floors high, picture booths in the carpark, basement of glory.
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Elephant whiskers, all lonely in the drizzle. Snow-prints through danger.
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Leafy green's the cure, now the soundstage is empty, marbles roll away.
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Meagre flakes of snow flit by the foul mountain's feet, looking for long sleeves.
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Hollow limb's missing. “Just one more bloat of the lungs? Just one more breath please!”
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From seismic bubbles, the vassal’s vapour-weight hangs. Entombed in his hide.
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Relentless chirping. Spared from echoes resounding, I'm in the hallway.
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Nihilist checklist. Absence is ever-present, skimming over planes.
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Murmurs drift along bad apples' still white blossom. The season's seam frays.
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Chubby was the nest, before the pot-bellied swift deftly migrated.
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Dogs return transformed, this time into dogs again. As a dog clocks in.
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Floating on fire’s heat, calm breath opens a latched door.
Blood and thunder stilled.
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The restaurant is hot, cooking up endless repeats. Crumbs garnish footprints.
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Appliances wait, electricity building orgasmic power.
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In a crowded copse, gargling on raw, teething gums, hidden troubles spread.
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Velociraptor, spooning the life that’s ebbing. Things come together.
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Back to the brunt and borne into time, empty's the mirror shorn of shine.
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Mr Pumpy Pants, all hot air and blue water. A vole clots the mind.
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It’s ceiling salad, down in Loftie’s basement barn. Hear the igloos bray.
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In the spasms of the unrolling god-tongue, he seethes incandescent.
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Greased by underlings, his head rests under the rock
of experience.
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Adrift in the tank, lightning strikes the peloton. It's mostly Noah's fault.
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On second viewing, the vassals talk to no one. No Phil, no Kirstie.
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My ring is silent, like the boo of a shy ghoul, politely creeping.
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Regeneration yields a boiler’s apprentice: Your body’s intern.
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Deflated hearts sink, on behalf of the others. Roaming in dog shows.
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Averse to rising, beached on a dirty bone pile, nagging obliquely
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The Bladder's a song; The Bladder is big and strong; The Bladder holds piss.
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Lord Hulch can't moon us
from the steel safety platform;
His coat is too long.
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Ghouls in the theatre boil kraken tendrils in soup. Spotlit by Johnny.
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Carrot on a stick, dust admits the same defeat. The shadowcart rolls.
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His face a wafer, fossilised into a trench, like a cataract
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Wrappers in car seats. Trampolines stilled by absence. The writer retreats.
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Scratched in the bedrock, the tuppence of perception takes vertical tea.
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There on the shore side, pulling it apart in full, to no longer know.
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The body escapes, wrestling around the edges, seeking cessation.
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Unplugged at the wall, he took himself prisoner (despite the whitebait).
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New names for old rope, you are woven into walls. Whistle to the worms!
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Trawling the past for escape routes in the doubled vision of the peripheral mirrored cabinet - who’s the toy in all this?
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Horse in hand under an eggless sky, stormy rags drown in buckets within the dry spoon’s eye.
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From the doghouse to the bookhouse, leads are followed to the listening booth where some light may be shed on the mysterious Flamma Simia.
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Sliding or surfing, mutt or intern, riding clouds of sound; it’s appraisal time!
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Mr Kit Eraser was never going to be a superman, whatever promises coated his slick tongue on the trip to watch Mr Porky talking to his pies again.
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Puzzling at the brownpatch in the coachpark, the glasseyed guardian of a goosy rubric heralds a jaundiced flashflood of consciousness, before ducking out. The sackblood sings within the mosquito pup, supping at a babycino.
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Masked as a rat infestation at Fitson's, a perpetual loop streams sideways, sifting through sands and punching brains, only to bear cheese-witness to Miriam's sludgy tortoise pipe-dream.
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From the water on the brain to the rubble on the plate, culinary rogues wield hateful spoons with gritted teeth, lives are ruined, the sun's retired and the hills can't get over themselves. Just another day in the lab.
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At an important ingress, ingesting books, people and light, the underground library forgets its overground pretensions.
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Rousseau and Marengo Part 4: What goes in must then come out. What OTIS lifts it must let fall. Short-changed, enflamed and fading out, the question darks the mouths of all.
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Rousseau and Marengo Part 3: The way the gravy trickles at the feast of fools cannot swamp the fact that OTIS sets the rules.
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Intermission: Whether Marco, Yarrow or Charlton Athletic graft him a future, there’s a largish crowd waiting to cheer at the resulting haché.
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Rousseau and Marengo Part 2: When a fall guy fronts, it's not long before an affront is felt. Duplicity dials, but who will answer?
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Rousseau and Marengo Part 1: Bon mots, or not, garbled from the gables. What fool would rise to meet the demands of Fantoft?
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Rumination 30: Meat is muddier on the grassier climbs, yet climbing is cruddier to the meatier minds.
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On a train-ride through the nervous system, packed among badges, badgers and bandages, Mrs Blandings sits aimlessly astride a listless chestnut mare.
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A survivalist makes some internal adjustments. Partners in crime call it a day.
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A tap on the cubicle door heralds a problem of greater girth than that of maimed apples or a cartoon grocery threat.
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What flies circle this tempting treat, shedding their inventory in the poem of empty vessels?
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Bread & butter, rice & potato, lump & leg: conclude your slop around Peppin's Fair.
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Roll up for the Grabbits, and the Lump and the Leg, here consuming or consumed.
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Barking in the churchyard, in a static swamp, on the trail of a cinecidal director... Action!
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Unkempt pamphlets are best read standing. A tragic mission is premised on a bad Greek camel. But then everything does turn into soup.
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Weep in the wake of a Cornish steamboat; weep for a lesson well learned; weep for matched socks in a silver Mondeo; weep for a love lost to lust; and weep once more for weeping's sake.
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Dino diner in watery grave; Dream teacher pizza shame; Dazzling Dad's canon comeuppance.
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Hatches cede to grant the tortoise leafy sleep. A screenwriter clambers over a droid's husky homecoming. A big pink lousy drink is thrown into the haze.
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Tongue, teeth and mouth rest better in decay, while the living run on glucose and ice cream. And goats.
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An attic nap. Words under pillow feel firmer than earth under foot. Too late to dig yourself out of your inbox. Lay down the shovel and come back into the house.
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Two angels by dust bitten; one cat, neither sat nor sitten.
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Are we strolling into festivities or caught on the bottom of a sinister shoe? As a rejuvenated fox flexes its shape-shifting muscles, are we spiralling through its soft tissues?
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A fox is cannon fodder for a tradition served up with a bang, but who saw what and does someone else have eye-deers for this splattered heap who strayed from the skulk?
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Passages rob their wanderers. Gourds wheeze. New job at Lofties. Young lights flicker over pine.
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Manuscripts masticated into the masonry. Lucifer on the loo. Old boshers have a bash.
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Oliver plunges into the nonchaotic, leaving Tom to drag the entire world into the black hole of his body. An everyday psycho terminates their scheming schematism and a seagull gets a stitch.
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Down, drowned by the weeping crowds, where the sheep sink sodden as clouds, here, hear the story of Elvie.
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There's little consolation in your poopy-pants words when the birds are an oily bag of bones.
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At the Gobborn Seer Tavern, a perfect day leaves a couple crowing, while the radiance glimpsed at the end of the tunnel casts a long shadow over hope.
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Sinking through the office floor, hair and posset, we find a monkey with expensive tastes.
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A lesson learned at the lathe-side turns us towards the unseemly world of dogs.
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Snoop on Pudsey's fate at Stucco Point. Warm yourself by a smouldering car wreck. Digest a stewy gambol. Scorn the ruminations of a Tudor wombler.
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Hear the thundering of a submerged heart. Discover the contents of Rita's crypt. Learn how to dissolve a chandelier.
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Sedated and semi-buoyant musings on consciousness from an East Anglian water park. A poet gets an amazing revelation forced upon him by his publisher. A cheese sandwich gets grilled. Librarians fight each other for fish scraps. A harvest song happens at the end.
