Tag: Prose

Betrayed by Biscuit Barrel!

biscuit tin

Heroin Sonnet (One line is absent!)

Vermont’s Original Bag Balm tin laments

a pair of glasses (snapped for advertising

porpoises!), the child’s toy tractor, green

gin trapped naturally: there is floral décor

garish redolent of that chocolate

box, or some Huntley & Palmer’s biscuit tin

containing uncut Ammanford smack?

They ran him in, they ran him down: Besmirched

his name all over town. Self-righteous lazy

solemn nonsense! So, all good things must end

in silence. They were wankers and they

knew it; and he, apothecary, James

E. Blewitt refused to play their silly games.



The Farce of Habit

In Exit liberté à la François (1799), James Gi...

‘…Do not take your hand out of the fire.’

He took his hand out of the fire. He did it every day after he was told not to. One day he will not be told and he will burn.

Horse Feathers Forest


Run out of town by a bunch of shit traders who wanted my ass for burgers. Now I  crouch, beaten up bad with a missing hoof iron; skulking on the edge of a forest. East of Eden and West of Wedlock, pretty much nowhere. We had to pull up at the cross because I went lame and the wheels went wonky after the chase.

Lucky to be alive?

Well, no-one in their right mind knows, do they? Pass me an analyst: I’m a hungry horse! Gestalt and fries, run it through the jungle, motherfuckers.

Love is lord of all!

So says that poncey little Nightingale posing on my snout making snidies about my long nose, having a laugh at my expense. Snap! Missed him, little punk! These parasitic bastards only hang around to eat my bugs and look pastoral. Stick the picture on a box of smarmy chocks, get obese, and be a celebrity.

Nothing to do in the evening, see nobody apart from the devil and go nowhere but bed. This is no life for a big horse. Why did they not just finish me off when they had the chance? Well, I’ll tell you why – they do not have the fucking guts. Can’t risk losing face, being found out, taking responsibility? You are one of them, insecurity in numbers, fucking lemmings the lot of you.

Fuck, I’m crying. Big boulders hit the forest floor and make great lakes where small things can  thrive. The Crow Fascisti perform mourning manoeuvres. Dreamt last that some chestnut filly wanted my foals, no face: even my head is taking the piss! I’m out of here.

Piss off owl – twat! No ostrich, I do not want a fucking Pontefract cake. And you idlers in the canopy can shut your holes and take a powder. I’m thirsty.

Charly’s Ant

Tony Bennett

It has just gone ten and the morning splurge is underway so it is upstairs for asylum from the maw, if only a modest respite before the ‘big scribbles’. There are a couple of things put up for comment, unenthalling and over-written first person tedium; they do not provoke the bard’s quim: atrophy Trophy.

Morse can dwell below for now: upstairs poems, downstairs for prose. There needs to be a separation or blurring will occur. Did a bit more of Byrdland while downstairs; the Ginge arrived to say au revoir, I wished him bon voyage and off he went till May First. Listening to Tony Bennett and waiting for Dr. Doss, who is late. Feeling hunted, the prey of a vicious and pernicious pack of hounds, always wary and back-watching: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you!

A Knight Inn

A Knight Inn.

Maud in Weeds

Thigh-deep wading in the river, a band of
Fading lilies in her hair she whistled into
Cool air as the black night rested among
Its retinue in St. Cuthbert’s belfry.
This is not the dawn of last year, nor more
Than it is another night of wonder.
For there, beyond the railway sleeper
Love is rising

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