Friday, 1 May 2009

A nightbag of stories

With a sleeve of time she made a cloak.It let her alter her past,cleaning up tiny faux pas.And she always had the wittiest ripostes in town.

His plan-sweep up the poets&force them to write in rhyme or lose their Eliot license.His success forced poetry underground,where it belongs.

She was a Scot out of water&he an Englishman abroad.They exchanged vowels at Derby&hullaballooed aboard the QE2,joining 'i's for their tea.

This frail man once ruled the land&now he shrivels here in his cave,shivering&calling out for milk.His dead white eyes still pierce you thru

Handsome though he was,she wanted better.Her eye wld drift from man to man&he knew if he didn't provide a child,he'd soon have to scuttle on

He rolled his life into shape&found himself a steady girl&a steady job.His need for liquor liquified into the best built birdhouse around.

His headache spread to the paper on the table&the ink in his pen.His words filled with a migraine sharp venom,burst on the page&snapped shut

She cared for words not mouths.He cared for skin not flesh.They cared for love not lust.They weighed each other bare,sharing their thoughts.

His crackly gramophone voice was a thrill she rationed.After 3 years alone on the island,it snapped her back to a culture long since gone.

John broke the bread&gave it to the boy&his mother.The boy did not like the bread&spat it out.His mother slapped John,pouring his wine away.

A brush of him set her on fire.His sweat diluted her&his words scattered her to unimaginable places.He was her poison&she drank him whole.

Oranges rarely satisfied his hunger for fruit.He moved onto papaya&cherimoya until finally he could only feast alone,guzzling cuts of Durian

In the rumbletumble of his bachelor days,he would play pool into the pockets of the night.Nowadays,he swims every morning&dreams of snooker.

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