The Manufactory

A Love Poem

Cherry blossom and my foot

Entwined with black-haired octopus ink

At the parquet eardrums

In this face with snails beneath my belly.

Handfuls of frayed, taped, cables

Fill the boxes of my nervous system,

Their kettle-leads teeming with bloodworms,

And I cast before you

Shoals of glittering, chattering, wrasse

That speak your name.

The Origin of the Sea Bishop

The Carnivorous Bagpipe

Hello Pleasant my stranger!!!

Give joy to your beloved woman,

A tentative

Insect.

Dammit Jim!

Stop squandering your youth now,

The girl is looking for you

To do april.

Eversions

Bring joy to your life,

Highly sought after

Powders,

From me with love.

And now you know ... The Rest of the Story.

Be seeing you.

The Breitling wonder tic-tac

A blind man who sounds like rain

The Sniper's Manual

Pick your target with some care, particularly when your enemies are all dressed alike.

for Martin Marriott

Guard dogs are expensive

The hypnopompic message was received this morning, the picture was taken some months back on a dérive around the Olympics site.

Interplanetary ouija: the planchette begins to move ...

The Horns of Mithras (E6)

Music they have, but not the harmony of the sphears, but loud terrene noises, like the bellowing of beasts

Your mind a cage of unclean thoughts

Oracular predictions of Boris's London

... the damned Home Counties, always London's bane, her worst enemies, her potentially deadly parasites. They're driving out most Londoners and taking over our houses, street by street ... Complaining all the time, these half-educated drones are filling up Fulham and Finchley with their stripped pine and snotty little ill-trained babies, taking over our resources, creating ghettos as they go. London will soon cease to be cosmopolitan. Those pale-faced parkers are all the bloody same ... They should be kept in reservations, limited to South Ken and to Chelsea, not encouraged to move into Clapham and Battersea and god knows where else. You hear them moaning about the people who were born there as if those were the interlopers. It's classic imperialism.

Moorcock, '88

A Dream Image

An image that had haunted me for years, after a dream I had in a friend's house in Barnet. In my dream my hand had snapped back to reveal pencils stored inside my arm. Robert Smith from The Cure was hammering at the door.

The Wick-Trimmer