Jimstrumental time. Vuvuzela poised to blow. James made that bit, Ben.
Waking with a start, once when I flew with a boy. Ready breakfast bowl.
Flamingos yammer, "the gargadillo is loose". Birthday cake blowtorch.
Bad ammonia. Must be the asparagus. Wish there was a cream.
Boredom is creeping into the kitchen, hoping I'm for the taking.
Those shotgun blues fanned, no skip can dampen the rage. The animals know.
He wriggles again, seemingly wanting to speak: coconut shy man.
Gnomes humping tree stumps. There'll be Fraggles in my bed. Wish Santa stayed home.
Wails from the toilet. Bleeping mummy's gone offline. Weaponised wet-wipes.
Apple core cast off, unsettled by some textures (travelling naked).
You think rhythmically while I crack open the eggs. The whiff of leather.
On the holy ranch, no one gives a fig for you. Arcade consoles guff.
Dancing to expire, expletives force a new pace. I'm going to sleep.
Night in the graveyard. Digging the blue shorts. The hem is rising.
Mischievous season, sun surrenders its powers, losing the pantry.
Where prized emotions are conveyed as swift products; I'll journey with them.
Cobweb unyielding. Too cold above the hard ground, Cypsela spasms.
So moon reflects day; the horizon calls the sun. Clouds, an afterthought.
Against all the odds, I didn't use any bits without a rudder.
Horses for courses. Warm marbles offer kisses: The sinews of life.
Theft gets him sexy – I think it does for us all. Free meals come second.
Forgotten journeys. Jane doesn’t know where she goes. I remain in awe.
_____ _______ _____
Heather in the grille. Stragglers pass over; to jump in each fish's eye.
Sheltered in concrete, unstoppable baristas peel reality.
