LazyLinePainterJohn

Bullocks collide in the meadow's mid-distance; Tityrus unpicks a many-versed song, sat by the creek; feet outspread along the bank of the unsilvered river's insistence. The cows low towards the good pastures, the grass lush and bright. Aloft on the sigh of the wind a hawkmoth, rubified memory, sunwards flies. Tityrus casts up his soul in the notes that rise high to the black orbits, three gross and circling vultures. And distant a horn. Lycoris approaches, with freshly-cut flowers, the edge of the creek. Tityrus kisses her once on each cheek. The cows take a sniff of the wind and hold back.

I give up. Whitworth, Merritt, Cope, it's all been said. I love you, this you know. Come to bed.

"Listen to me or I'll break your legs"                                               - Steve Thompson Dear Sir. Not sir. It's automatic. Sorry Steve. Dear Steve. I'm fed On seven years of autocratic Tiffinisms: "genuflect to teachers." Seven years' emphatic Faire-sans-dire  still in my head. Dear Steve. Your style was more dramatic you taught life and art instead: Stoppard, condoms, mathematics, goatee beards and Berthold Brecht and Bigmouth Strikes Again, such is what you gave us, plus the threat of a half a term on crutches for ignoring you. Dear Steve - respect.

Once, before the world was formed, Or Athens raised, or togas worn, Before the planetary bodies Told the fates of Spartan squaddies, Before the Gordian knot was twisted, Before such things as knots existed, Or notions such as 'time' advanced, Eurynome, the goddess, danced. She'd risen out of Chaos, naked (This would start a fashion), waited For instruction, signal, sign. Receiving none, she said, "Well, fine. I'll dance. I should've started sooner," Began a tango para una. (Eurynome, as I have said, Was naked. If this story's read By children, for their education, Kids: use your imagination.) Dancing, though, was complicated

Lookunlike This could be a photo of Irvine Welsh If only he looked more like somebody else This Is The Third For several days now I have had two poems in my head Balanced, as it were. Today I wrote one down And as I did the second vanished. This is the third. 3 lines I wanted to fit all you are into three lines Will you wait till I improve Or will I wait till you diminish No, no, no, no, no My father lies Full fathoms six. Contrary git. Oh My Scars 'Oh oh my scars, my wounds, my scars' You flaunt your scabs for all to see And reckon that it's poetry That comes out if you squeeze them hard. This Actually Happened Toda

It was cold, freezing cold, and damp. Hephaestus Culvert wondered why he'd picked up the squeegee in the first place. Throwing it away, he crunched his way through the leaves that blanketed the streets, like a street-blanket of leaves, until he'd finished his cereal. He glanced up at the sky, which was without doubt the correct direction to glance in. It looked like rain. It was wet and clear and it fell in droplets. Yes, it was definitely rain. Finally arriving at his destination, a featureless bungalow with neo-baroque cornices and pebbledash windows, he walked smartly up to the knocker and stupidly rang it. Receiving no answer, he rapped a

.     My heartchambers aren't porous.     My muse is a thesaurus. .