Jack and Gillian progressed up a hill,
For a pail of H20.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Gillian came nose-diving behind.
As a consequence Jack ran home,
As quickly as he could.
He was wrapped up in bed, plus a bandage on his head,
Soaked in vinegar and brown paper!
Gillian laughed aloud maniacally!
As Jack curled up like a ball.
Gillian cried, ‘We’re very ill you see Jack!’
Jack said ‘Yes, I agree… And my name is Paul!’
At an aggressive speed
I was losing my way
I was feeling so alive
Seeing what could never be
The atmosphere burned red
And so I thought of what will be
…from now on
I noticed then what I never see
Chrome slithering roads and bloodied sky
With all moistures weeping in blue
Rolling, cruising, endless
On and over flattening mountains
This is what I’m telling you
Those slow buildings in green
I’ve finally found out what I almost lost
And sensed what I had never seen
All around while dissolving out
Through and into the Firesky!
I’ve been told,
repeatedly,
by you,
that I don’t know who you are anymore!
Then you said yes,
yes I know!
and that I’ve told myself that,
many times before!
Earlier, you found yourself at an edge of woodland; you stood at its beginning or its end, you couldn’t begin to tell.
Impatiently, the trees blurred together, all around you, trees branches holding others that spun ever wilder, entwining into an eye-shattering carousel.
In the loop, you do not know or fear the time it takes for the motion to slow, winding down, tired, the branches let go, clumsily flicking leaves at each other, like young children; engaged in dance, then distracted, but always pure and in play.
You, look around you with your peripheral vision desensitised, you were somewhere else, just left of wherever’s’ centre; you could breathe deeply, consistently as one; with a carpet of mimicking leaves.
Now, feeling so spongy underfoot, you’re subtly falling and rising, falling and rising in exact time with your steady pulse; you were now at the heart of everything.
Dren is a bird of that he knows and that is all.
He has no wings and his beak is useless and small.
What makes him a bird is his willingness to fly,
He dreams only this before it’s his turn to die.
As he looks to the heavens he sees robotic flight,
He reads up on his finding for endless days and a night.
Dren takes a test and now a pilot he can be sure,
This is a remedy to his miserable life of before.
As the plane goes up he remembers he’s a bird and sings
Then he opens his hatch and shits on my belongings.
Have you ever felt your insides boiling in the heat of a Morning Martian sun?
Because, here you can explode immediately so I advise you to please not come.
There is a planet, just one along that’s a little cooler, with water a plenty.
But, I warn you now you won’t be welcome; you’ll be ripped open before some bastard counts to twenty.
So I advise you to stay at home or better still go somewhere else!
If you stumble across their alternate selves, remain very cautious; in another universe, man + man, still = nauseous.
I cannot speak in this room, my tongue is sewn to my inner mouth like an old rolled up, tatty, old gym mat, left tied in a locked and forgotten storage room. I am now reduced to a baby regarding my quality of speech, no-one, not even myself will understand my dialect now.
Subsequently, my eyes are like CCTV cameras, tirelessly scanning people I will never know. Such resources require feeding before I again starve myself from predictable individual markets of specialised code. Right now I do not want to buy into anything, other than some much need for some personal inanimate objects, or Mother Nature’s pleasantries.
Then, surprisingly, a section of room clears, I notice someone familiar to me; they sit directly opposite as if waiting in a crowded underground station for a train that will never arrive.
Immediately, faces and limbs move blurrily around them like a meaty aura, descaling time, they somehow cut a somewhat dominant figure with a slouching posture; sitting in an otherwise frenetic sequence of scribbled picture flick images.
All the while, a hideous wallpaper pastes the background; unnaturally large and repetitive design of supposedly beautiful coloured flowers. Seemingly this Rorschach of entangled petals also emits a pungent scent from hells garden, choking our airways ever so slowly. Or, a ladies offensive perfume that loiters excessively as she struts passed on death-defying stilts with a cocktail.
Slowly the wallpapers flowers grow, entwine and weave, swallowing all that stands near it, suffocating the lost and forgotten drones that are top-heavy while on the edge of walls made from verbalised, exhaled breath; an endless wordy fever swells the room into sickness.
Then a sudden refreshingly pure breeze blows playfully, it caresses my moist cheek, my unacquainted companion acknowledges the very same, welcomed oxygen. As I raise my right hand to my drying face, I notice at precisely the same moment they do the very same, it is as unnerving as it is welcoming.
It is then we leave the room together.
The half-life – existing in Ordinary Street. In a home that’s regressing, decaying at your own apprehensive feet. The curtains, undrawn, mournful in unique shades of burnt. I continuously prolong to stand; outside, be curious, where nothing can be learnt.
All that remains is allergic and weathered, bleached by an encompassing light, a colourless nothing fading from every passers sight. The welcome gate has long since gone, dissolved by powers of apathy, crumbling everything, no longer strong.
Carried on a gust, is a child’s drawing of their favourite haunted house, daring you to walk up the path like that famous miming mouse. Someone is sealed inside their novelty box. Merely do they exist, inert, in one of their cellblocks.
This was this once the warmest family home. Mum and dad, the kids, each sitting on their styled floral throne, around the television like decent and normal folk, laughing like gas leaks at dad’s latest bad joke.
If you care too much now, then you are very strange. You can’t spare the spare time and so creeps something random, unimportant, and you’ll be fine, so walk on regardless in your very British sunshine.
Branches bare
Black and white print
Cloud covered blanket
Adds shadow over tint
The frozen ground
Unpliable and plastic
Threatening, overhead
Dropping white static
The Sun feels its age
Winter owns this place
The warmth of my body
Versus the freeze of outer-space
I shiver in a fit
I breathe as a dragon
Red/Blue and swollen dead
I’m wintering, a cold cannon
Dry twinkling grains
Soft sucking imprints
Moulding
Swallowing spaces
Between your toes
Temporary still
Of someone’s moment
Until erased
By unempathetic sea
A liquid giant
Sand pushing machine
Of Its own arcade
No coin-op
I Eat Let.ers 