Archive for April 2015

Making up for 6 days

stay in with Fred Dibnah re-runs,
insure your 90s CD collection,
ebay amazon, sell on,
poang chair,

or go out to fuck you 5ps in change
all because you paid with an awkward £1.90,
a starbucks stiletto piercing your skull,
sliding its way deep between
immorality and the rest of your benevolence somewhere up there.

go to bed now.

You can be Chandler, I'll be this usb cable

we stared at it for a good five minutes,
children around a rope swing body too afraid of the drop, so he jumped.
One of us poked at it, jabbed it 'til its petals fell off:
thrown flowers from the overpass above,
lightly dropped, not a touchdown distance here,
whoever misplaced them was distant, over horizon line, past Joey joke,
they were stumbling upon well written blurbs of people
rendering all reading pointless, we're all the same, these flowers don't matter,
or they'd seen their other tired and said
please hide your luggage, dear, it's slowing us down
then stormed out and off, flowers in tow, Elizabeth's got her Way, let's leave everything here.

For this show of all things cute and affordable from Clintons
was an IMAX, Nolan Cameron's ass crack screen-shot of despair,
another pop at the small guy
kick him whilst he's up,
don't let that year 2000 pip of pulp sitting hammock in his stomach fool you,
that's perfectly normal,
carry on,
a meal for one in a damn themed restaurant,
this evening's more pointless than a mortgage on a salami,
sharpie on whale skin, what's the point in that,
probably something.

We weren't a we, but we should've been,
that would've been fun, something to talk about later on.

first line of Five To One

capture me in your church pews,
project me onto all the walls you're yet to level out and point,
re point,
fuck it
get a trowel,
let's point the seams together
come shit and foul weather,
pour orange juice across kitchen floors,
slide in the pulp,
the back of post-it note gum,
stick me to bathroom mirrors
let me remind you to buy milk
whilst you pluck another late train
from your brow line early on Monday mornings,
bank holiday schedules,
mum modest hung jewel;
Spielberg turned you down 'cos
you're one art school that can't be contained,
captured between church aisle pews.

we'll get out alive.

Gandalf's understudy; they kept the horse

Shadowfax and I can go on adventures together when we're older,
though he's saying his 6 mile radius is Damon Boston tough,

I'm saying it's not enough.

We drank our milk,
talked over the situation like therapists at their annual 'best stories we've heard at work' conference held in Staples' chair department
and left,
him out the window
I took the door.

Same tomorrow.

Dine me. Adult short fiction doesn't work anymore

Solar-panel honey trap,
light of no one's loins yet always turned on in the Travelodge light,
reads adult short fiction on her Kindle Paperwhite
while the man she stole is in the bathroom on another phone
talking to his wife telling her truths so far from the truth that to call it a lie would be lying.

They met on an ambiguous dating website
where the USP is that everyone is married
and everyone wants to leave,
and now, come to think of it,
that's how the Premier Inns of this world
make their money:
night-away rooms used for hours at a time and home by 5,
tea and coffee making facilities used for half-drunk cups
and biscuit packets torn, thrown onto floors, not eaten.

Today and tonight they stay over together,
an adult sleepover with a mini bar and a volume restricted TV,
and each have rung,
with excuses spoken through a throw away phone bought the previous day,
their partners saying why this conference-away-again is
directly linked with this month's bonus,
and if we want to go to New York for new years then this two days away from each other again,
second time this month,
is a small sacrifice to make.

Solar-panel money trap man,
assortment of BMW twelve-volt lighter iPhone chargers yet no one to call,
talks bullshit to a bull who knows it's just a red cloth
while the woman he stole is in bed, another bed from last time,
reading her way through some adult short fiction to stimulate something down there ready for later, when in 
reality the words on that e-ink screen are as far from romance as this hotel meet-up scenario is.

Bear Grylls: The Island

His oar rubbed squeak along the rail of his boat,
the shuffle of tennis shoe on Davis Cup court
echoing out across the mangrove rain forest.

Grylls was afloat with no Internet,
no knife,
rations were low,
the buttons on his shirt blown,
shot through,
his torso bare behind broken stage curtain mid-part before opening night review.

There was a sign stretched across the horizon.
Grylls was hypnotised,
the tides drawing him closer to the
bedsheet, made by kids, written on in Crayola, bamboo pole handled banner:

Bear held his gut in his palm, a
branch had lashed out of the no surf
puncturing his lung
and he died breathless in his boat:
the Amazon is as lethal as it looks,
this sign makes sense now.