it’s always ticking this beetle with gold intestines
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though the mountains take more we can laugh or move underground in the spring of shrunken expectation she walks away in the middle of a sentence
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I tried to be two things but the paper kept curling and I couldn’t get a straight line so I decided to move to the next town where I met someone who reminded me of a girl I once knew whose name I never learned as we only ever joked about certain forbidden vegetables while we were in school together though it was more of a forced labor camp but when those ghostly blue flowers came again in the spring we were allowed a minute of silence to think of the photos we once had pinned up by our cots now long eaten by moths
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immediately you turn around make a correction as the blue of chicory looks nothing like her favorite dress or the coupon you’ve been saving
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what worries bubble over your shoulder as daffodils once in the margins of the enemy list found curled in the shoe box with your baby teeth
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After the Layoffs
against such odds as we now face. We will all have to screw our heads to the floorboards and hang our intangibles from the light fixtures as the sun sets on the legitimate spoils of this empire, and, for the future of our privileged and somewhat damp, though not without merit or beauty, where was I, lives, yes, which, wriggling away and leaving a trail not so much slug-like as composed of a kind of radiant petroleum product, must look ahead over the mountain ranges of the current difficulties and try to imagine a kind of future without the interference of the mechanical flies and their predators that we have so blithely come to accept as we once in the style of some indiscreetly imagined past took tea on the lawn, though, to sum up, it is not the past or the present that matters, but the small screws that hold up the iron pants of this great nation, which we have and will continue to sell at a reasonable markup.
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too late to give up the first sign of bruising in the morning sky
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like an ancient carved alphabet or breakfast free from human hands while this spark lasts whistle past new double glazing fit for middle management
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always wondering where to start but I’m always here so what was the question again some escape to range out over the hills note cannot even imagine mountains some people the fields and squares with manikins so realistic you almost see little clouds of smoke on a cold morning but the world is flat and without much detail apart from this pen and the shuffling of the dog occasional whiff of that cup of coffee and see I’ve fallen into my own trap and all the sudden there are things here in the world around this black hole
other animals 