Bittersweet Soliloquy

The dog’s sleeping on the sofa yelping intermittently, legs dancing like marionettes.

“Shut the fuck up!”

The dog looks up, softly offended, before his eyes begin to droop and close again by stages.

“He does the same exact thing every day. He eats, he sleeps, he chases tennis balls. What the fuck does he have to dream about?”

Dunn pauses for reply, receives none, continues.

“The most limited range of experience possible and a kernel of a brain to process it with and still he has the gall to dream!”

Dunn’s mother has gotten up and busies herself in the kitchen. Dunn gets up and turns off the television just as a cartoon fisherman is casting his net.

“Well you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve farted. It smells so bad that I’ve made myself feel unwelcome.”

Dunn lopes upstairs.

“Night Love” his mother calls, pulling the plug from the sink.


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Infinite Fool

What’s this shit lipped Black Itch got to be so pleased about?

Coarse idlin’ bastard, the summer’s his!  His days are warm meat, that’s what…

sweet salted rot

endless fucking

divine filth

hopeless glutton

infinite fool!

A fat, healthy fly

can really kick you

when you’re down.

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Non mea culpa, ego fecit bonum opus…

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Mystery Box Challenge

Let’s take a trip to the Masterchef kitchen now as the finalists face their toughest challenge yet…

“Chefs! It’s time to open your mystery boxes and find out what you’ll be cooking with!”

Gregg’s eyes are wild with practised zeal.

“That’s right Gregg! Two beautiful dishes, one hour!”

The pair sidle over to Kevin’s work station. The dentist from Truro has been wowing the judges with his Eastern take on French classics.

“What have ya got there Kev?”

“Err it’s, oh God it’s…my wife’s head…”

Kevin’s box contains puy lentils, heritage carrots and his wife’s severed head.

“You look a little daunted there Kev, what are ya gonna do?”

“Oh Jesus God…I have no idea, Olivia! Baby, oh Christ….”

Kevin’s hands shake as he takes up his oven cloth.

“I could braise the cheeks and maybe pickle the carrots with some star anise and ginger?”

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The Ghost and the Sunflower

Johnny Mills was busy mangling his turn to read from the play.

“Prick….love for pricking, and BEAT love down!”

Sniggers all around.

“Keeds! Come on now Keeds! Be sensible!”, crowed poor Miss Barton.

The Sunflower carried on highlighting every instance of ‘Our Souls’ he could find. Ghost had been doodling a graphic little cartoon of his friend molesting a giant troll of a woman which he labelled ‘Your Girlfriend’.

“Is that to scale?”, enquired The Sunflower before adding the words ‘BIG FUN’ to the troll’s ruffled summer dress. Ghost rounded off his vision with some sores on the lovers’ faces labelled ‘herpes’ and a speech bubble reading, “Ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a grave man!”

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Wagon Wheels, Pilgrim

The sun was shining, the birds were singing and Jack pulled out his gun…

Dunn woke from a cowboy wagon dream, rocking back and forth, head swimming in flies. His John Wayne gait carried him from bed wreck to shop corner where he coughed a dry fury at the check-out, spooked the cashier and with forty proof in hand scuffed the pavement home, his free hand raking sweat through his hair.

There was no key on his chain when he reached the door, just the sunflower fob, an empty weight in his pocket. She had done it at last! Backing into the street and the prairie sunset, Dunn closed his electric welling eyes.

“Take a bow, Jackie Boy! The wheels have come off!”, as a neighbour passed by walking his dog.

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CRK Guernica


Evening fell and as I attempted Proust, all my guilt came home to roost.

All at once, my shame it rose, jolting limbs from rich repose.

I knew well this sad sensation (a diurnal fixture of my resignation),

but tonight was different, tonight was new.

In my bones a fresh malady grew.

No longer was a simple spectre brewed,

no longer the chill of my lost Blue Nude.

The visions that held me then, and the horror that holds me still,

is the carnage of Guernica and dead horses in a field.

Dead horses in a field cast my stomach black.

Franco’s fleet foot incendiary yield did my conscience rack.

Where was my saccharine melancholy?

The prize for years of mortal folly,

of grandeur sought and storming mood,

my sweet misty release, Blue Nude.

No thoughts could stand still in that dead horse field,

no dreamy reflection of the fate I’d sealed.

All that stood was acrid panic, rictus features and ash Germanic.

Good God my appetite has been so crude!

Crying hunger, whilst on fat I chewed, leering and aching and waltzing Blue Nude.

So when market day came I took to that field, her as my armour, my Svalinn Shield.

There in Guenica I stood and floods of fire fell,

as black fat cracked under grinning shell.

Evening still falls, far off bells do peal,

whilst in Guernica I lay, twisted amongst those dead horses in that dead horse field.

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