Category: words
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Lizards.
Zinc figures emerge from cradle-rocking mist. They are bluffing, of course. There are no back-up plans rolled up in their back pockets, no call-out plans, no recitals blandly reclining in an unobtrusive manner in their back pockets. No, cash in hand, they delightfully extricate themselves from the mist. Oh, how they smile and cough out…
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he harmless wanderers
The harmless wanderers reverberate and lose no sleep over the smallest pebbles of their dreams. The harmless wanderers have no plans or remorse or cold, gemstone privacy to protect. They let loose 48 rounds of pyschodelic, loose-cannon-fodder into the muddy, smoggy world, as they cavort surrepticiously down the mine-shaft streets of no-return, rainbow coloured shopping-bags…
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The Corpuscles hope in their teacup Wilderness.
The cold clipped dawn forever notifies itself of coming futures, futures dressed in shredded plastc and straw Boater hats. a hyroglyph exploding in slow motion from the horizon, horizon, larger and larger. a walking hyroglyph – with hope and a jolly smile.
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Bornagain Codsmiths, outnumbered. by TC
Ecstatic roadrunners maintain theirequilibrium. as only the slightest of pauses is recorded for posterity in the outbox of time. “Take this ribbon from your hair” orders the Jackel, (the prime suspect in all cases of meandering folly). “l will not sustain the cucumber vollies. if you persist in that ridiculous demogrifying behaviour” Needless to say,…
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Tuesday-Tom goes to the Cork-Shop.
he is sporadic and hyacinth-twisted, obscure and delightful, he weaves real, live rainbows into endless staircarpets and walks up them , to the moon.
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lonely in. bed I Write this blog post to you strangers and it breaks the isolation.
and it breaks the isolation. Its dark, night, my dear friend my bottom left tooth is taken out tomorrow, its been with me all my life. Now I have to thank it and let it go. l bow to you dear helpful, bottom left Molar. and then its my dear Uncle Roddy’s funeral the next…
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Click here for a…
Click here for a door to open, a fish to bite, a lemon to weep, a fraud to step out of his sad forest clothing and show us his all. Click here for the poet who writes adverts, raising our cultural awareness and letting slide his misgivings. l am gun-slingered, circus-trained, developing ulcers and gravel…
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The Crops are all in
The crops are all in, the red iron has rusted. l’m taking a bus across the barron hill road. l’m Iooking for love – none to be found – its the individual who suffers, in vain – the overall picture is numb, no feelings – just a haughty, know-it-all vision, expressing itself in huge flourishes…
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cold evening in Amsterdam
…feet cold, nose cold, knees cold – cold ice covered, shiny, slippery surface – got to cycle carefully – balance, balerina-like, on my cold metal bike. But at least its not raining. …and the fat, happy carrots hang, dangling, from golden, diamond encrusted sticks and we follow them, never quite reaching their orange, chrisp, suculant,…
Tony Chapman-Art Music Writing 