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.
Lean on my italics, put your weighted soul on me, let it push me down the page, drown in ink and tears. Then, as you make the period, feel that sense of something ending – the record of the last few moments are clear and freed up in the black unfurl of roses in monochrome.
i know about things
you know about things
but your things are boring though aren’t they – be honest
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,
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?
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.
Romantic worlds in a black oblong
Lights make lands unfiltered
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
Dew in the morning on the “washing” line
I’m an adder, swishing through, coiling up
A letter and I have wings and claws and
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
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