Trudgin through a drift of skinbits, a clock
Appeared:
‘Zoot alors!’ I exclaimed, realising that the clocks
had changed.
What was once a mongoose was now a goose.
‘Non dieu!’ I exclaimed.
How time flies.
‘Au contraire, mon nambulist!’
Said a clock.
Coincidence!
interrupted by
plane crash
in
back window dweller:
shit happened too much.
Shucks!
Folly?
Golly
Recall a putrid?
Kept calling me ‘dumbfuck’;
day 5 so far.
WIP; with a little help from…
Aviator on; clock working,
and counting.
352 mph.
Fastest man in the
Whole wide
Whirled.
Pretty strung out on a weird green quoit when a zither said: ‘get down here punk, gravity is not levity.’ Ignoring their megaphone shouts the ground hit me and I dragged myself through the thronging crowds of Alexandria, piss bleeding from my eyes, in an attempt to find out why the ship matches had disappeared from the soul kitchen. And guess what! As I approached the mews a spider strand silvered down from the window, and I, like an extra in an epic, tethered my one remaining toenail to it, trusting the last chance saloon, and got pulled up to an open bay window, where I got proffered attractive vino, which killed me off. The last thing I remember is Torquoise.
Why?
Damned if i know.
Moon undercast, sat in dark, underslept,
overdreamt.
Grayson Perry repeats in my ear:
wreath lecture.
Upstairs rumbles, floorboards creak: footfall
human biped
paw patter.
Noises.
House to clear, stuff to do.
Shetland occasionally poor.
Colour pitch. Huge challenges. Budget cuts.
Findings concerning.
Rain is the number. Heavy brisk bluster.
Gorge custard. Asp tounges in larkspit.
Togas and no gas.
Maria danced for money
grander day. Blue mountain megafire. Bedtime for bonkers.
Thuds.
The day begins and ends in night.
Night is morning: Good morning night!
Clocks fall back soon.
The radiator
is not getting warmer:
needs exorcism
The snowman is a mellow fellow
and cares not when his legs are yellow
Snow is honest
It does what it
Says on the tin
Paperboy in a shower
Did not take too long
Turning to Papier Mache
Had a jar with Dora Maar
thought
She’s not like how she’s painted
A two-faced bitch’s a trifle rich
Still,
Her reputation’s tainted
Memory of joy
Forever
Is strangely true
We squint to see it
In the mind’s eye
It is there
Blurred, muffled,
Gore-Tex blue
Grimbeau 