Tuesday, 24 March 2009


a simple desultory thought
acrossed my feeble mind.
galore ha ha!
exotic sequential sequences
entering my subconscious palate
and influencing my daily decisions!
what a joyous realisation to happen across.
free jubba jubs for all!

each thought sinking into the ether
was illuminated before it moved on
to navigate oblivion's rectum.
the space i was occupying
seemed in good use for the first time
since my largely ignored entrance
onto this overloaded stage.
the sky sat above me in silent arrogance
with its eyes looking in envy
upwards towards infinity
it turned its vastness on me
and my toothpick of a species.

Monday, 16 March 2009


i stand, hovering somewhere between
suicide and orgasmic glee beside the idle toaster.
i admire the resilience
of the sweaty little crumpet.

inspired by its attitude
i recite a wonderful sonnet
to the tune of a rusty kitchen knife
over my anguished wrist.

a neutral 'click'
awakens me from my abundance of escape routes.

and i amble towards my mailbox
praying that my copy of 'creaming crusaders'
is one day early.


he waited, with baited, boozy breath
as her head parted from his soiled lap.
her glistening lips were no longer kissable.
she vacated the car
leaving an odd smell in the fabric of the seat.

drunk with fatigue, and excessive consumption of alcohol
the lonely man started his car
and made off into the night.

the repetative nature of the passing streetlights
illuminated his genitals.

he could feel the shame building
as he ran over a dead badger
whilst it's already orphaned child
watched it's mother
slam into the tarmack for the second time.

Monday, 9 March 2009


"fuck", i said.
a young child caught my glance.
i threw it back
coupled with a crotch reshuffle.

he knew the game.

removing his glance he returned to his innocence.

Monday, 2 March 2009


Even the dog had jam on it,
he thought.

It was a sunday morning
and the image
of god faced
stern worshippers
entered his head,
as he packed it
full of moist covered cereal.

A lack of milk
and a wealth of water
circling through the gritty little hoops
characterised his inner landscape
for the day.

His clock had stopped the night before,
its face stared
like a fresh corpse
questioning all that was good and still moving.

Even time had left him behind.

He could feel his sanity
nearing towards the door.

The feeble dropping of printed excretia
attempted a weak coup
against the surging tide
of mind towards an empty asylum,
as the postman

or someone


enacted the daily movement
of societies great bowel.