how she loved him,


her defrosted mammoth


how she wept


when one morning, once more, he froze over.


== ==


how it felt

in the morning when she woke, and

felt the brontasaurus licking her breasts

with that rough rawhide tongue

and that scent of cyclad,

evergreen.


== ==

"A fascinating woman. Nipples the size of dinnerplates. An excellent mathematician."

i will always always always let you lie
my sleeping dogs

While we conflate about this bleating flame
Let us confute, confound
Compound our guilt, with lambent blame,
Rake our ribs. It's not the same

Let us gather round this tawdry flame
And tell sad tales of language acquisition.

Tell, all told, until our simple circuits break
Our soldered sections, crumbling genuflections
(At the heart of every circuit is a crucifix).

Tell, and tell, until our simple hearts break off:
A dot dot dot
A stop stop stop

Oh this gay addiction!
This discontinued continuum
This stopstart flataback
This jumpstart startagain
This jumped-up uppity
Bust dusting of grunt, this grill
Of stitches, steel, and mousse
A vomit laughter.
A puke opera.
The lovesong of windy beaches
Belching bleach.

Such magnificent augmentation!
Magnificat! Magnifico!
Oh, keep me wheeling...

== === ==

For Deremaindered:

I am heavily Catholic.

'Paradise Remaindered' - Nicholas Milton. Distant blood relation - maybe. May as well be. For all we know.

The developing world? The overdeveloped, artificially augmented world, more like.
The only axis of evil I know is the crucifix. Or that little line that strikes through the dollar sign. The cross barring of all open doors. The barring of ways. The gold bars, brick solid, burying all of us alive.

The Chancellor of Brown.

== ==

...there to press
her prescient breasts!

he hated the taste of his tongue.

green dress and catheter.


= = = =

not augur, augmentation. not prophesies, protheses. calendar and calculator. catheter and calibrator.

the fifth plinth

we bore out our hundred days
at the microwave café

coal is at the finest level sunlight
when we let loose aloft.

For Deremainderer:
Ritner - A Protoretrospective.
(Plate I, above): Herculists. Plate II: The Herculisa. Plate XLVII: Herculisa with Green Dog.
A Brief History of Brevity (Complete and Unabridged) [Sequel to 'A Short Guide to Length']
The Scent of the Hypotenuse

Trapp's Last Crêpes = the protagonist, Bruno von Trapp, is referred to throughout solely as 'The Spoonerist'.
(his slysdexia)

the groove vinyl diaries

It was endowed, emboweled with great girth -

to kiss not her but what moved in her and waited, her protoghost -

giusto ciel

we can all dream. i do sometimes. i fantasise about my inner man.

giusto ciel

Inoculate Your God!

if you want abs of steel/ check out my iron lung - here in this prufrock honolulu

the graphic panic. the tragedy of haddock.

== === ==
the wife-twin story:

he'd been acting funny about the lunch since the day she first mentioned it (the twins)

she had spoken to this Nadia over the phone, a few times. A deep, pleasant, motherly voice that suggested an older woman. Probably a handsome woman. The phone itself was four years old, but it had never lost that new smell. The whole office had never lost that new smell, a little like rubber, a little like baby powder.

he returned to the office. he wore that epidural smile. She would not let him pacify her.

== == ==

for the infinite sadness:

NB "smacked up on my side of the glass" to end?

or maybe use the convenience store boy?


== == ==

the list
there is a debility in breath
there is a livery in skin
there is a litany in breasts
there is a library in life
there is a genesis in debt
there is a michaelmas in love -
a reckoning.

*

there is a hunger that is dust
that is not dust
there is a dust that is dust
and is not dust. there is a sheaf of wheat
set in stone and it makes men doubt
shakespeare.
there is a plethora of self-styled bards
their barks worth than biting - their wounds self-inflicted
for art. with a view to art.
which fails as art.
meat is murmur.

== == ==

these slow sheathes
his yelp was urgent, jugular.
he juggled his feelings
pacing, apace
the microwave hummed
he heard the soft egg pop.

her eyes seized on his.
they built on his gaze with gazing.
she saw suddenly how old he was.
she hadn't felt youthful in years but now she felt her heart's green beat, alow, alive, the keen hello of youth and strength.

and there were his poems,
other people's poems hacked and spat out:
you my woman hot. you my woman cold.
you my woman falling down, down and out and old...
he could have been a little more sympatico.

== == == ==

when you pressed my knees
that blue ladder | struggled up my spine with your blind chameleon tongue
eyeing my innards, out. we gouged
love from the black medulla of blent flesh. our eyes
would not admit the sun. i remember whispering
it is late. how did it get so late?
where did the day go?
where did the hours go?
i remember that fuck:
a slow protest, scornless,
not unlike childbirth.



== == ==


why did i dream about him? his hand finding my hand his hand finding my hand his hand it has been so long since i have fallen in love.

== == == ==

He wrote anonymous reviews of his own work.

She put out her hand. "Trudi Naylor."
"Bob Allcock."
"That's a pretty name," she smiled.
Allcock looked stuck. "Thanks."

Then there was his friend, Baxter the Bodice Ripper. Hum hum hum. The bodiceripper came over. He wore his shades inside. He smirked like a player. Parsley hooked around his snaggletooth. She hated him on sight, and new that she would screw him. She felt a strange urge to see his underpants. Once, for revenge, she had sewed a little name tag into the CKs of her ex-boyfriend.