PEEL RAPE

She ate her apple like a hard boiled egg, discarding the first bite of skin.

OFFLINE AND OTHER OFFS (# 74,994)

There is a connectivity pandemic riddling the planet. I noticed it one morning with my initial disappointment then subsequent elation of wi-fi-less-ness in a cafe. Online is a dilution of life, a watery cordial as opposed to the freshly squeezed reality ‘with juicy bits + pulp’. ‘Off’ is not always a huff or a mould or a separation. Off is independence, freedom, experimentation, spontaneity. Off grid, off the cuff, off piste, offal, and so off.

EVERY SUNBEAM HAS A MALIGNANT LINING

His smile equated to: 75 minute deep tissue massage.

The laugh he gave away was a downer, at odds with the rest of his manner.

ECHO OF NOWT

Her mouth was the pout of a permanent, though mute, whistle.

When whistle she did, it was that of an echo.

STR IDE

His stride was an inch too long and gave way to a hernia

AJAR

They tried to row. But try it was. One party lacked intent, the other conviction. Midway, a door wavered. A semi-permeable membrane by which cups of tea and ‘goodnight’ could pass. A kissing gate that stowed its way in with the wind let in by the Jack Russell. The door would broker 40 years of marriage and nurture 3 grandchildren in their lifetime. Some door, that door that wouldn’t close.

DEAD FLY

Today a dead fly flew onto my keyboard. I didn’t kill it. My computer didn’t kill it. It just came to rest in the hinge at the base of this screen. I have since laid the corpse on the desk beside a quill from the shredded feather of a gull. Tomorrow, I shall find a fitting place to bury or cremate the dead fly. Harold Pinter, are you reading me?

PLEASE DO NOT REPLY, THANKS

Unpopularity is rarity in all but desire. If there is no crave, there is no rave. ‘Rhyme’, as Mister Foer said of Brodsky, ‘presents a greater surprise’. The same goes for shape, spelling and rhythm. Behind every chorus line of black text that holds hands to make a word lies a related one desparate to take centre stage. This pattern is not governed by the mind, but by the tombola of chance.

TITLE ALWAYS COMES LAST (# 74,995)

Begin by beginning. Stop by sleeping, or dying, or saving another from dying. But make the out and in earn their milk. Stand-ups may use observational comedy to conjure laughs, but writing isn’t instant, no matter how substantial we are. There is always time to think and edit and pause between cause and effect. Even on i-chat. However immediate media claims to be, the reader still holds court. Don’t you?

SELF-HARM WITH ICING

It takes a lot to resist all that’s out there. Today, my nails resisted the lure of a knife to peel away the skins of soaked chestnuts. The husk is a fucker – torture of the first degree. It burrows its way under the nailbed and cries vinegar. Yet, despite the pain, I felt I in tune with the machinations of the cog of toil and felt I do not work near hard enough. Real labour is where the intellect and stories of man are at. Listen to those with leathered hands.

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