A landscape built at ten past midnight

Rolling hills, grassy carpet daisy-dotted,

Teletubby land but without the disturbing lion and bear who were the fear of all kids born in the nineties,

A vegan KFC plopped in the middle provides ethical nourishment in the land of Bedfordshire,

Red and white tiles, but we’re in England, not America – I assume.

And I can sit on the floor it’s that clean, just in the corner where I like it.

Cake and custard for afters and you don’t have to pay, obviously, because who pays for things in dreamlands.

boring mate

i know about things

you know about things

but your things are boring though aren’t they – be honest

they’re boring

and they’d send an alarm clock to sleep and it’d get fired, and you’d have to look that alarm clock’s kids in the face and tell them why they’re not eating wouldn’t you

because they’re boring aren’t they, your stories and how you deliver them

Marble golem made of white with heart of unknown colour

Marble golem made of white with heart of unknown colour,

Image of a jewel set in pearly granite, static or with a life-full thump?

Picture clashes with suggestive possibility of bone-thin casing

Spread like icing over cake.

Marble golem’s working cogs click or turn in silence.

Hinges hidden by a falter in my vision or by the perceived being, filled with elusivity?

How much of you is your ivory outside, are you dense or hollow?

If I cracked you would you emerge gasping, or would you lie in pathetic pieces of regret?

Gritty heroes II – Tele-grit

What about the psyche of the hero as he’s lifting up that car?

The hero as the outsider, rather than the star.

What will be the trope in years to come?

I hope we get to see Tinky Winky’s drug addiction.

How he couldn’t cope with fame,

And had no one else to blame but himself

and now he sits there eating tubby custard with his hands

and lighting up a spoon.

Po comes in hammered and calls him a useless purple shit and they scream at each other from fuzzy narrow mouths,

Before crying on the kitchen tiles, all sad and poor and round.

Flame of Consciousness

Stretching out ahead

Vast narrow wind

Stringy path – goat tracked

Grass matted like my hair at the back when I can’t be bothered to comb.

Poke holes in soil

Dampness

Dew in the morning on the “washing” line

Granted

I’m an adder, swishing through, coiling up

Slow worm

Slow wyrm

A letter and I have wings and claws and

legend gold

Fear inciter (twisted)

Blowing up bin-breath

Antisocial hoarder of things that mean different to me.

A magpie value

Scrooge McDuck Dragon whip my tail and yawn, as you creep past me

Heart pounds

My great yellow eye pierces your body,

Drop in fear and I make you dance, twirling dolly with scaled fingers,

Black glinting talon twirls.

Scar in the lair – you can be Rowan Atkinson’s blue bird