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Tag Archives: Fiction

Can you tell the difference between real and unreal?

If not then I am writing to you

about psychosis and the difference between being the One

who isn’t and the one who is.

I must go to the Church today and see the one

who is in control of the baptisms of Bath

who asks not who is here

but asks when shall we notice that she

is?

Who is going to tell you about

the birthrates of the City of Bath

and who is unioning and who isn’t going

to shul as they are preparing for incest

against the woman they know as Mum?

All it takes is cognition.

No speaking in tongues is allowed here on

the page.

No spoken language can tell the tune again

of the world’s end and how I held

it in my hands for you to say

So?

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What’s the procedure for this

the time is nigh for a muss with the head

and a fuss with the heart,

a friend by the doorway

and a sustaining look at a key

to the door of your head

and the start of the words coming through

the keyhole like terms of endearment

but not without the worry of times

spent in the loosehead mob

of the court and higher learnings

where they do not know how

to find an answer when all is about to see

that no one hears the words of the Lord

who asks not for the antiques but the real

named person who gave Him a bad name

for he is without killing and no one

can surely find the way to him in a bearing

like they use on the bookshelves for indexing

the author of their wares. For even in the world’s

books are there no use for the way in which

we see our lives about to finish without

knowing why.

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He shoves it to the left

and wriggles it back to the right.

The ball dances on a flipper

then sinks outtasight.

Judge Dredd, Ace of Clubs

multiball and more!

She tries to regain level

maybe make the highest score!

A target sinks under accurate fire!

Another goes and extra ball is lit!

She’s sweating now, reefer and beer…

A crowd has assembled

crushing close, pushing near.

She lets the ball bounce on a rubber,

subtle fingerplay shows off

her skill with the machine

she’s pissing him off!

TWACK! Goes the machine,

again for Specials lit

the metal ball is glowing

the flashing lights are getting hit!

Bump-bump go her hips

as she puts her body in

Two free games, no more!

The targets are all a-spin!

Finally she can do no more

her control has worn thin…

Over to you she shouts

do better! With a grin.

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I lay so long on the open lawn

I gathered dew in my fist

Peppered by music in my ears

A solemn vow to be kissed.

The trees above they shed their leaves

falling about my mouth

The birds were crying against the clouds

long on their journey South.

The few begin the hard won Road

snatched from undergrowth,

the use of machetes tore at green

in silence they cut with stealth.

No machine out here

Upon the verge, of latent falling wings

the chainmail mist hung with the urge

to sample a knight’s last fling.

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There was a time

when all things were made

in Eden.

Everything we owned

was priceless

and involved long hours

of arduour and wealth

procurement. Nothing became

of those things, they rotted

and fell apart but

were never thrown away

as in todays world

where the dump

can easily be mistaken

as a haven for the

insanely collective.

it took many ideas to foment

a pile of rotting soil.

Too many ideas is against

the Lord, I say.

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It couldn’t take long

to even the keel

and separate the man from

the bird.

Mostly it took

nor even nor book

to licence the thrill

from its rook

-ery of chance.

Never before had the man

opened doors of the heart

and it’s whimsical place

on the hearth. But

no one ensured that the

right comes once more

as the wily men

of the Nansook poured

forth with their

anger for the tumult

and furs.

In the end it was just

to fight with mere listening

at the trials of the

men and machine.

But ever so long

it reported in song

that the hills were

now vacant of longing

for the arrow to shoot

the man with the loot

and it came about

that all were involute.

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Try to turn and take a

part in the whirring of sound

as it strikes the ground

and know it doesn’t really matter

whose Eiffel Tower you strike.

For the man who loves to drive

it’s a manner of sakes to beyond

the palour to be able to make

the red and the green meet

again at the outset

of him in his ways

about town last evening.

In the frogmarching time

when no one knows who is about

the realising of thread there is

one who decided not to tread

but to run all the way

home like Piggy.

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The choice is the sun.

The time is the done thing.

Time is no more,

the use of time is the time

of right thinking about

the right of more things

that do not hold firm,

for they ask what to do

with the waking of Lord God

who is making their fem

tice and to do.

It is not for them to know what

is regular and soft for the word

is not frere it is brother

in sconce and some of them know

it is not in the hoe but

in the plough for we have no

Duke but the time is fast soon here

where they all shall not

pass before they all do the one

and the same

again.

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It will take a long time

to open the door to the right time and property.

It took no one to measure the length

of the broad strap

that closes upon the word of the song

and dance man, who knows little

beyond the white and red

and the author of those who know

it well, beyond the hoarse and call of

the near and the loose to you.

In the end it is not about

the right of all to see them in the world

but only the word of man in kind

who knows only he is fair and not

supposed to know when there

is time alone on the scale

of one to ten.

The time is here and no one knows who is

supposed and who is not

against the power of right

and wrong.

Use of it does not purport

to make the rye seem like the host

to your luck, but all becomes sin

in the light of dawn

when the ruck comes through

the right and stops it fully

being understood for many do

ot know it but many do

and so it is they ask

why are they hunted

here in the west of the land

called Nod?

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