a soft current of albumen

city of pies

puberty is the onset of spider legs covering your face, bitch

the moon says nothing back

i watch a big fucking yacht appear in the sky and say that is a big fucking yacht

i have nothing to say about the stars

today is national napping day

i buy a frozen pizza

there is a lorikeet in the tree and i have no idea how it survived winter

reciting the name of every british tree followed by ‘you know’ in the voice of tupac 

alder - ‘you know’

you get the idea

__________

insert horror

jellied jowls 

a table white from the light and its tabelness

to be born of age six million miles below salt water

a soft current of albumen

lost dreams of sallow autumn and arctic tundras

wishing to feel another type of cold

wishing towards another god

spineless horned beasts

this dead fish that rattles in lungs

six million years before man

curious as birch that becomes a white table

dread looking back at itself

prodding the egg with black plastic knife

the sports result’s eyes

longing to turn away and back into eggs

banal flickered and wooed

preston two plymouth argyle six

[to insert your own horror turn to page x

to be born a new crimson dandy turn to page y]

___________

not knowing a clock beyond its hands

there are exactly possibly six grains of oats left in the bowl

I ask the spoon about shawland’s arcade

‘cops have really nice colons’

‘why’

‘they eat a lot of porridge’ 

loosing the recipe for stuffed peppers the wind changes direction

‘some men have more than one nipple’

oh. he shows me a picture

the picture is that of a man crying

the point of the picture is that the man is crying

it is sad - it is supposed to be sad

but all i can think about is his bad hair cut

‘nice picture’