It was the holidays and he had to choose between being dull-annoying or dull-harmless or just totally zombiefied dull. It was a difficult choice.

I know a bloke who knows somebody who knows somebody who is famous.

I am planning a poem entitled
YOU’RE THE POEM THAT I LOVE.
It will be very good.
That bloke I mentioned earlier lent me some words for it.

then it’s haywire
and the bloos comes

well, circumstances permitting, we’re gonna sculpt the future

don’t care what those bastards think

You know what happens when you tumble head-first into the rhubarb patch? Yes. And it’s no good claiming other people’s footsteps dog your own. The fish is only sleepy because it partakes of its owners personality. I forget what I just did. What I said. The thing.

It’s a trap!

Oh yes –
it’s a trap.

someone knocked on my day
and ran away
I heard their footsteps on the stairs

probably it was an old woman with some kind of complaint

but can old women run?

a mate who said he had some shoes exactly like mine
except his were brown not black
and they had a buckle across the instep
instead of laces

I’ve been having a time. Walking backwards
clapping my hands doesn’t seem to have made
much difference.

A daughter calling from a shelf of favour;
to run one’s fingers along a skin of silk.

Stars tumble from behind the curtains;
Steve Mount is a bigger idiot than we all thought.