A redundant giant slumped silently on a porcelain escarpment washed by all weathers Hesitated and slipped under the turbid foam. A mission bell tolled, candles were lit and praise was lavished on the magnificent shit. “We may never see the like again,’’ claimed a source unknown to number ten.
Herr Hemmingway’s new fangled card tricks garnered whoops of ghoulish euphoria; cryptic brevity entranced the maidens in the downstairs parlour. Whip cracks of girlish giggle and pinch play pierced the dour scourge of curfew night. A carriage pulled up before the sombre granite Manse. A parcel was delivered in speedy silence. Casaubon ate freely of the doctored truffles. Mary Ann rested back to wait the denouement, puffing gaily on her long clay pipe and petting Daniel Absconda, her Sicilian spaniel. All would be revealed next Monday in The Infidel if they were spared. * Silas Marner pitched up unexpected the following day, dressed in limpid russet homespun which reminded Willoughby Dunlop, the virile batman, oddly of withered futuristic inner tubes. ‘Your luculence become you Massa Silas’ Dunlop growled with syrupy menace. ‘Do you bear subversive notions for the mistress? ‘That I do, swarthy vassal of capricious empire, that I do’. Willoughby scuttled away to disarm her, the sound of his chains echoing through the capacious lobby as he went. A smile of brute rapaciousness broke cross his ashen face. * The eagle dripped on Zion as Ezra piled up the faggots in Parousia, Tertullian gazed on amazed on the third day of the shining wall in the morning sky. Nereus took his leisure, replete in still dry oceans. What was in those truffles? Precious time had drifted away. Calypso’s suitors fed the fowl with pith and peel.
‘Nightshirt!’ demanded Funk. ‘I shall be with you shortly; in the fulness of time; post haste; forthwith…’ May Ann appeared at the door, dishevelled, her cheeks a roseate hue, panting. ‘There you are, my dearest. But why…’ ‘A spot of bare Pilates for the circulation. Doctor Jasper’s orders.’ A boneshaker hustled over the gravelled drive. ‘Mice?’ suggested Casaubon, aroused. *
‘So Dude, what’s your beef? I post a lot? I am a friggin writer, a communicator. It’s a subject to object relationship. Intercourse. God proposes: man disposes. That kinda set up. So quit your incessant carping, Buster. Just because my numbers turn out better than yours. Get a friggin life Godammit!’ ‘Discouraging words from Herr Hemingway, Adolf. He gets so reckless when he’s on the saucel I’m sure he will come round in the end. We all have our eccentricities. Our peccadiloes and foibles.’
But Adolf was inconsolable. The rest is Off course Is history.
* Chesney reached inside his great coat pocket and took a slug from the vial in the brown paper bag. The liquor! Dammit the liquor. Huxtable was wrong. He took another swig. It was then she emerged though the Bourbon mist of the cold November carpark. Zelda Zuchenslooper. What a broad.
‘Who you screwing, Small Fry’, she chirruped from some distance, yet somehow audible over the hubbub of a not inconsiderable crowd. All eyes turned on Chesney. He cleared his throat. It was now or never, and he hollered.
The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit lay open at ‘Gallimauphy’ when Inspector Funk arrived. The only witness was a mute cook who went by the name of Chum. The blinds were closed. The only light was marsh gas. ‘This setting is inappropriate’ was scrawled across the artexed wall. Water dripped into a blue trauma bucket.
A surgeon minced nervously from door to door. A fat man rested his eyes in the corner of the crowded annex. Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room. The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four. On the lawn red fungi grew in the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves. The rowan tree was barren. A youth rode past on a black bicycle. his aspect adamant and grey. She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move. Belatedly the phone rings, it is limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the abattoir. Funk is lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference as he does so. His varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light.
A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer. His bane, patrolled the galley in the hungry times. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence condoned her every move. Chum would be released on good behaviour. He had done nothing heinous. The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was closed and sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and sniffed the food for truffle spores.
Shield early before the new luckdown. Shutdown early for Juul. El Scruffo & Bones calling up the big shots to squeal. Morphed solid when the bowels moved blue heavens. Continent inflamed by snoods. Await the balsawood Liberty Ships. Winter of ’40 revisited. Listen to the World Service. Narvik was a gas…
Change at the top looks imminent. Fishfarm McGove lurks in the wings. But if Trumpington-Smurf gets ousted by The Ghost Wind then Joey Gorky is well parked as the comeback stiff
The Plague will call the real shots if the Old Queen can see the big freeze through without burst pipes through her ancestral piles
Existential bubbles will self-combust in peripheral tantric flight or get brought down by Tesla drones. Time for a penicillin shot. Bawds risk the wrath of the coparphagic Lords.
Long time was once spent looking back on I forget now if the bad big toe was just there and how could you know how so freely we openly slipped out for a clandestine puff as the lazy cardboard cut out armless guardians sloped off to languish in the gentle tonguing lassitude of comely liquorice eyes; and that is just one reason why it is sad to watch how the laborious wrecking crew drew such enormous scorn and derision from the current stoop of media rentier hackery; all you see is a black wooly hat that hides up patchy tousled illkempt thinning dreadlocks; but that guy sat out front for fifteen solid defying blatant barefaced drying wafts of CS gas in Plaistow, so merely recalling he who once stood on the lawn for two long years in no more than a mite’s parsec wrapped in the quiltyblur when the sun goes in is nothing short of parlous disregard… ‘Shut the fuck up Maxim’, the ex-army faceache exploded next door but one because a gundog went off in an off white vastibule for that is the momen when a marksman barks chill hors d’oeuvres; and there it was in a nutshell. Flux # Four looming large on the riddled turnpike And there was I minding my own half term spring bank holywell business following a tetchy break up with the zeitgeist snoozing and sulking, schmoozing the effete airwaves over roundabout brunch time feeling well short of chipper considering risking an impromptu outing to the gibbous moon retreat and recalling just how keenly direct sunlight soothes the crooked back of deviance through supersensitive cotton woolens; imagine nothing simultaneously but dimly aware that the phalange menagerie is running perilously low on critter comfort vittles and that I carry none about my person so can do nothing but dismiss it as a mere peccadillo and thus chimera; you may care to liken it to an open purse splayed out prone on a chinless whim inside methinks, or make an ocular or dental note on the way out will you luv? Look see Bathsheba twitch! A Birdbath water table runs low to parchment arid, its marooned lake isle consists of no more than an imprudent wood pigeon stool pile parked epicentral to the drumlin— just goes to show the extent to which stale shortbread affords a crypto-sinister challenge to a circumspect riot of cackling grackles: now try to press select fast forward on quicksilver messenger to gain access on scant jade highlights of dewdrop prism bluebells a’glisten in wild horse meadow about this time of the year in the mystic spring tra-la and you’ll get my drift… Watch instead ascrimson tractors sculpt dark chocolate mudflats groovy & throwing in a swift neat buff & shine free gratis and thus costless, stand erect in awe of an elbow that greased a thousand pistons crawling at random over no man’s land crunching brittle bones and shell shock cases into a shambles long abandoned to ample trample on . Count up precious emboldened turdrums and spread forth largesse to multiply with yon weathered tarnished yard brush…people without the know speak gassy corpse mouthed cliche guff & boffin jargonisms when confronted with these absolutes; proffer we no more than mere maple staples for the cowbirds to frown and humbug on and over; getting here slowly but by but what heft; one phase drags on nigh on forever — red books, green books, blue books, jumpy weavers work from home; using up all the words in the program including arabic symbols and synaptic tooth gaps; load up a random rustic mudsling meant to do good for aforesaid head, blinking improves the pecks and posture clefts in order to reboot and sock Launched ‘Cibernautica’ on a supersensitive public via a superstitious republican to pause peruse at enforced free leisure or to thumb through Al Dante & Raoul Vaneigen for subversive sugar high kicks; twenty to five and so am I banished, famished or vanished, mein hairdo? Vamoussed Should we bathe our feet or bury the dead? Why not first repoint the house with marzipan & sprinkle afterwards in a waywardwotsit more twinkling debris? Settle you down nice for the night of a hundred thousand stars. See how Ariel was only too glad he had kept his nebulous poems well out of heedless sight. Forgotten filleted fragments of a recumbent monkey got wrenched out kicking and screaming to demand release from further alptraums & agonised imaginings sustained by grief fetishism and pain habitats left hanging round waiting to be strafed and milled by anxious stingy yearnings (yawn less often and mark well each of you the scarce spontaneity remains of what you drag down from vibrant air to groggy meagre earth). The survivals time is not worth going into now in case the dormant migraine flares up at something seen more than understood. A familiar calypso for example niggling away at understated subtle nuanced resonant grievances like that of a well trod path best avoided. Other makings of the homespun sun were animal waste and goosebump welterwort And it was there in ancient rhymes the ripe shrubs robust writhed and humped. His self and the sun were become one And his atrocious ill kempt pomes, remakings of his selfsame, were no doing of the suncream. It was not important that they should survive epoxy resins. What mattered was that they should bear the thought of comforting lineament for a character of the golden age. Some degree of affluence was missable, if only half-perceived, dwells it aplenty in the poverty of their eyes, and thus of the planet of which they were once apart. Wallace Beery’s Boozy Babes were also apart. Up to take a piss and anoint wild wounds thrice tinyly in the night and by fluke of hammerhead encountered AN Wilson on the picture box talking TS Eliot in stately homo rooms and after swords outside for mincing crisply round revered ancestral piles disguised like a got up belle epoque nihilist in a foppish gauche inky purple beret-berry and authentic pro situ shadesuthant, an emaciated highbrow eyebrow peruses the vernal slums of Little Giddington. Most effing edifying. Went back to bed unaltered stateless and thrashed chaff til dawn till is that Humpty Dumpty called me to ask if I knew what a demi-rhapsode is. Didn’t remember and mumbled harpslime and dulcimer soup before bidding a fond farewishwell with a loving poke of my popsicle thyrsis. Therefore inafter it came as no shock to find out three have quit the tory story at Chez Vertigo in a spat over the ongoing Bauxite impasse. Painted naffly six blooming daffs stuffed in a dirty glass of gripe water as a epop eyed mean old man preps hen with lemon, garlic , olive oil etc in the galley…editing’s a task for smart alexas who lost badly playing abject chess after encounter distracted by flaming marsupials , seven deadly dins ensued and we conquered the jacket spuds were ready, after tucking into chicken eucalyptus marmalade, got a fit of the scribbles, dashed two posts off, a mediocre potpourri of pretty picks? Left bereft past caring either way, just pleased to have broken the bad spell (two years!…and the rest old chum!!) bloody narks, no resistance to wonga means bad scripture class. Still the chicken sufficed– avocados grapes. TUC cheesy wafers, sauces hot and mild yet something is missing, the heirophant has left the room for outer space of a nope name journal for a kickabout, a dribble, a rehearsal of dead ball situations, how to negotiate wonky roundabouts, or reveal a shuttlecock on a driven pile, turning on its own for spite– consider these deserted playgrounds, clear of fag ends, coke tins, sweet rappers, impromptu barbershop quartets, short and curlies soaked in wet rubber diapers, abandoned polio kids on grotesque dazzle stilts, go not down to babbling brook, them microfish got teeth effendi. Look on instead with absorbent gaze as a cloud scuds over a field of maize and get it down quick before it evaporates
The sundown spoof unravels; bad workmanship made odds fave to blame; twentyone indies and counting now sat on the whiggish rump thus May heads off defeat by nine; out of the country by the time the shit hits perhaps? The F-Bomb calls between innings in a keenly ignored one day drag; what was that oozing the base of the doors–it hurts to hear; cubist daffs attract blue lines from an Umpire of the slum in Windsor on a downtown Sunday morning crawling past in lice bejewelled vermin crusted watching ermine embedded on parade while down the food bank the Duchess of Dank squats dribbling on her chiffon sushi recovered from a regency grundon on a car battery UXB coins a ticking on the porch. Won the race for time to cook sausages before the thing goes pfoof. Phew! the relief of it all. The sausages are fine now with all nerves shredded. And all of this accomplished while bathing ulcers in antiseptic teatree sap. Sun out! Daffs citric yellow…hoover roars, rump of day trundles into action. Read Canto III of Dante’s Divine Epic. Virgil waiting in the wings: that Beatrice doesn’t half go on at times… Holy toe attended to; navy dressing gown spawns brand new micro climate: ‘Tis my condition’, I enlighten dumbstucco onlooks only to receive hoots of derision from the tawdry old owls Money! low on blow…’Jones Rocks Up’ (working title minus work); The Bard of Staple Hill took ill & asked for a replacement. right place at the right time no worries guaranteed. timing is everything temporal (quite a lot). Ups & Downs of Marasmus Snr: a world of woe and baskets;shoot before you leave… Zoom! Hall door wiped Zoom!! Sat out, read about retroflection, dranks two coffees Zoom!!! Wiped the hall door passably Zoom wrote this, Off… Zoom! Could not relent Zoom!! Mantelpiece, lampblack fireguard, abandoned hearth, cheap shit sideboard, tat clock. perspex crucifix, chic curved staplers, shillelagh obelisk, Grand Central Station carpet remnant— all wiped most perfunctorily Zoom!!! Emptied an ashtray for absent fiends Mist greets dawn in a blissful haze, cleaned up medication corner bags, three hours soft labour; petroleum spray renders me inflammable; upstairs for a smoke break found magic red paste! toe cavity insulation after douche; mad Dan Walker commands the USAF to celebrate ten deaths. Dust rules KO… covered up the chasm with red magic & kitchen towel cones, wrapped it in white stocking and hid it in a slipper, recommenced the purge Zoom! Thai nightlight jigsaw washed and left to drain, swept up dead cypress fronds and chestnut oak leaves, drank coffee. sun is out now i shall follow proundly thru the front portal to do…nowt for an hour Made it here at last, had to come up to change from last week’s clothes water horse and washboard, y- faced spruce up a bit especially after yesterday and the sore toe and the fear of fallow wormwood. Still never mind I’m here now, ready for decoding Nefertiti the big white house in the woods on the hill cropped up while talking with The Man about hedgehogs. he showed me some amazing footage of him being approached while walking the dor round the corner at five to six in the morning– well what i made of that was hunger after the cold snap wiped out the local edelweiss, a endangered species round here for donkey’s years, I’m told. Who was it had a deaf labrador called Sniff, the big White house on the hill in the woods? ‘Hardboard, hardboard hardboard is all I hear morning noon and night, from dawn to dusk, twenty seven eleven and all the days between accepting Christmas when we talk turkey and very little else comes round from the dwarf house to share a cracker and exchange pernicious glances…’ That was what I pretended the Nun next door to the big white house next door talked like. She was a friend of my mum who used to service the House and drag me with her. She had three sons from a devious relationship and the youngest, Dave, was foisted on me for dull company and secret policing, he knew of my growing reputation as a cat burglar. one grey morning in winter i was sat in the big white house on the hill in the woods, i was on a giant chair staring through the wide bay windows, across the flagstones and down to the empty swimming pool, unused for years and covered in slime and frogs, when Jim Morrison stepped out dipped in black ink and smiled laconically before walking off. this really happened. like everything it was a trick of the light. Not really what i meant but got it down put in meat to heat took seat and when sat fancy that an acrobat lurks in a daffodil shadow dancer going good to soft throwaway evens odds chance encounter with Basingstoke AFC Nineteen Fifty Two raw recruits and wartimers national service local plod all knew PC Arlott seconded to The Cricketers for sinful skinfuls and goodfellow banter, rowdy bar brawls ten a penny, Sunday church to act repentant sinner hairshirt of dog bolts sunday dinner have a cardiac snooze eat tinned salmon dainties round on Aunt Chutney with not long to go and good bit put away besides just want to get on get ahead get somewhere in life just want to see the world have a place in France somewhere to get away to in life just want to slip away end of May on a merry dance somewhere in life ice breaks waters waters flow its not how you want or who you like that matters gilded lilies and scrumbled yawns, linctus armchairs, hair stuffed lawns, extensive dawn gets up to greet you mr interrupter butted in to disapprove after pondering at length the prose of cheese leave the rest of that lethal stick where it belongs and go and grab some rays i dare I fear i’ll lose it on the stair i’ll tarry here a while with this stone head go lose a game of chess at least… But now i won and i am 1182 all out and day crumbles into evening and Wales beat england at big bear hugs and…caught the sun and dropped it in a jiffy bag; should be something else somehow, what with all this good weather, but no, day has come and gone, cruise controlled, bumbling, wary, awkward to chance encounter, out of practise man you don’t hardly ever meet no one around fingers feeling better, gaining a typing rhythm, away… long passages involve more breatheRS room to manoeuvre uber… BIG TRail showing first thing starred Rebecca Kelly & big leggy romancing the go west old fart gin lane settlers raoul walsh 1931; injun troubles stirred up by cartoon lowbrow mob, sharp shooting black hats bite dead sussed, played by Tyrone Power Snr, shot by toothless oldtimer pioneer, role model for Walter Houston and the toothless cook in Red River played by Norman Gunston; chopping down cardboard redwoods not so noble now, cellophane sequoia and backlot Cheyenne in pure ethyl ignorance- Oregon Trailer Trash role models, How the West was Grunge… half moon slipped nowhere into dawn lurking up there somewhere smirking open windows, ate ultra healthy option finnfest granola yogurt honey, too a bomber and its attendant tiddlers, had a fizzy after slippery dung obnoxed wet room stale nightshift heat, up here socked heavy, aint doing leaves too wet Luther; Manny and Stotty coiffure the larch, attach to birdsheds can’t remember exactly when but hazard a guess at Tuesday last; obligatory post in new second hand coat; off to catch some rays methinks… Sort of did but watercolour got me going. Monday no milk outrage — why came he not in the middle of the night? swept another layer of winter dross off of the path– big women drop off offspring (not so busy these days, has the boom wave ebbed, austerity nibbled into a secret cheese, housing, moving up the greasy ladder, can’t get the staff these days, working from home, something in the water…listless emd ifs and buts, drawing no conclusion, longitudinal approach comes highly recommended at the committee stage, truth is fresh out of green paper, firm downsized to eco wrappers for half digested biscuits stood at bus queues waiting for the moon; nippy out big warm coat and wooly noddy hat fit for the part of disabled resident doing his bit for order banjaxed as to do what next as per distant aria laments radical veruca be yourself ate scrofula scapula took umbrage always trouble brewing after that from one day forth and so on feuds and scraps of silver tassies glinting angels on hogs back tumuli litter levelled playing fields battlegrounds and dinnerbelles a terrible hiding is sustained bang out of order was it playing catch up petulant outburst quick to it learnt or got jury never came back most plumped learnt i guess prejudice mind nagging doubt remains genome keeps time makes spots on cows look random not said turing at some stage of plausible imaginings in a strange tongue space state algebra boole’s logic bomblast the door off whoops a daisy unforeseen consequences of blind man’s buff masquerading as venetian blind venetian to fine one eyed kings in cubby holes drinking lemon tea & woe betide woe be gone go pester schwester for a bung Quiet hour feeling radio off crisp cold draft blows sharp through prized prism window stuck with it mind did not relent as i pass by after 2013 autumn notes depressed me on the bog frosted angels snow mountain folk sleep deep down silver mines alarmed that karma ate dogma impelled a hard act to swallow wolf down relish chew over ruminate mull gull suck luck lick sick cardinal son: Wireless off, TV off, just you and me kidder, what’s happening? fairy lights on glass amphora, orange brown ambience, curtains drawn, still night just morning, not me again all day, when sun gets up i will out and scumble in the hinterland, immortalising stones and truncated oaks, waxy laurel, jagged grasses, bones of budding shrubbery in bowlers and grey gabardine four endomorphs arrive with the box us two are six two they average five ten, a visible tilt to the mourning crowd, we agree to bend at the knee, how silly sod frost malingers clear night snap daffs likes twiglets camera zooms whirrs clicks caught it on my mobile: where now mein herring? A partridge & a pugnacious loafer follow an overdue shower; slick partridge explores seamless levels interwoven house trained psychopups toilet gagging mime till all breaks down in mute nostril armchair agony of handwash maitlis encountering ineffable twat in a see through elevator who penless begs right on question love me BBC ( A cock up and a bully yarn punctured slapstick nightmare real time mock up mirror scene in Kane infinity of urinals, twisted flaw unravels silk, deaf as a psst subbies on for prompt stir coffee with avocado spoon think dickhead dance a dawdle brain hair down light rain falls on burner lid; little pots on ramp brick wall) up here again for fusillade of flux end of…camera on regards surrounds as if handheld on to of neck: fulsome daffs, cardboard bluebirds, shut the window, heater up to 22, freshly out nasty chills forewarned, whole avocado I’ll have you know– Anavocado, Anavocado. borderline hour ten eleven will he show or will he no? No need to call time in world of chill out now the cat is out out bag and sitting up now, unlocked by cramps, tingly arm pressed tight to sidewall, marching on toward, leant forward look toward, head start in the mildewed wilderness, hunter & hunted merge, prey & predated heavily sedated, hare coursing mad as march mains; winds due at noon, over ripe walnuts, loss of loose water, leaky tubes cost lives, wind & wuthering taking tolls, Wallace Greenslade headbuts Eccles, suedehead upmarket dinner jacket arsehole, smoked a pipe like uncle arsehole, cravatted gaucho on an alfalfa romeo wishlist semi green with ivy nor not as we thought we knew it, neither…the syruppy voice trails off to grotesque gurgle, anticlockwise yokel slips down the sinkhole, a bullfrog in the throat of rubric u bend, caustic sod all to say to each other anyway these days, lighten up it would if you did you nasal hair, slimy lamprey hidaway conceals enfant terrible, shallowly musing under a clarinet rainbow, no coffee left only bloody tea bags; things to try us sent in spades, spades to fashion open sunlit caverns. If not what? look up…no joy. How long will we wait? Hill and Valley, the Radio Doctor and Naughty Rudi Bown at the Old Bullshit and Bushmills–everso smart as ants in pants, warriors both off course. Then Boom. Woke up covered in pasta! Pressure cooker popped big time. Bit more than a pop you think. Time for sure will tell if you persist. Keep quorn and carry awn. Spring 1945 and all that jizz. No bloody teabags, only empties. Can’t get the staff upright. The others are in a sick bay shirking. Make do and mend then. Make do and bloody mend again. Make do and bloody mend the only game in toon Breaking news of the departure of the Chief at Rio tinto rent the autumn night. I turn up the heat, make a cup of tea. observe the aching foot and fetch the morphine. It is coming up to two am. A scoop before sleep is permissible. Tomorrow I will buy fresh batteries for the Thunderball. That is my sole task beyond shielding and convalescence. A spot of gardening would be good, but is not a must. So chill and kill the pain and write in peace it is. Lockdown prom of Beethoven’s 7th occupied the evening spoonful time as the meal got made. Salmon and Salad. It is just gone two at night, the vapes are fully fuelled and the World Wise Service fills the hairy airwaves. Microsoft Central claims it has candycrushed a Russian attack on the US selections.
Watch out scarecrows silhouette and long shadow Golgotha sunrise: a frequent earworm reoccurs at whim
Is your ending really a beginning ? For how could it not be so-
oh and by the way – How’s that old doggo dada of yorn?
Dead as dorsel dogmeat afeared Licking up spillaged goosefat pulverised by muskrat finches under true blue weathervanes
How’s mine own one going, Missy?
Would she a quiet one Self harming cross legged in a corner pulling on a subconcious purple woodbine ?
Yes. Same as it ever was Smoking woodies burnt out on angstrom, stool pigeon chested sorbing robust summer sun, sporting short sleeved pastel blouse open to the breeze, taken to walking in staccato stumble on feet buggered by servile drudgery, thinking what god knew once upon a time before the flood…
Buddha-like inscrutable some say round here though harrowed head of blinding anguish Marinated in dubious sun wonky dreams have took a toll
Suchlike stuff filled Leaf’s priapic sleepshot numbskull & starcrossed marrow bones while he creeping slowly through her steep sunken garden that late Good Friday afternoon, chanted ‘Was Erin with auric brass neck & hardball shoulderpads watched through sharkfest eyes bloodshot after a catch-up daytime nap from a bad night twice remembered? Was it panic that kept her up three days killing time with gimmicky zombie horror flix, relishing the dripping of copious rot from pellurid cartoon blood oozing from every single pixel, Was it sudden came the quick denouement part made aware of skull cap thinning like a wildly, itchy unkempt beard of cheesewire — a wretched sight altogether to behold, Lucertia.’
Leaf sat now facing late low sun, watching jet streams & midges merge, counting teatime birds play come and go, stopping to perch for a last feed on the sickly rowanberry, then head in head, out of the cold’s way, when evening nests smell of deep fat friars,
Leaf too went back indoors to see what was going down David Dixon was last seen dead by a man in a Homburg; Mason Wells survived his third suicide bombing — random business this life.
What with populations swarming here there and everywhere. No wonder such a radical flux breeds weird shit algorithms, recounting how brown blobs pop on white cows…
‘Go get the washing in! You idler!’
Time bumbles lopsidedly Westward murk rays prolong shade Pull the blinds closer to home Call it a day… Day!