A Narrative plays out on the inside of a Cup

In the meantime

The Key

The key is cut by the smith.He holds the key, brings it to your lock.
Shuts the door behind you on your way out. He locks the door, and
you pay him for the service.




Outside the trees are burning. The House is made of Water.
Amber light shines through its windows.

Horse shoes sing before they are nailed to the hoof.

They announce verses of chance through you.

They are worn and pulled away again.

I saw your feet cut straight from your ankles.

Hung the right way up over each doorway.

To keep the luck in.

Pisces never learnt to run

we were swimming

sunshine bears a birthmark made by its exposure to him

a new place to holiday

a new way

there were new barbs and fangs

and things to help you eat with

the spiders come out after the wet

A shaking spine in the shingles, and those that danced to think themselves of it. Beholding the moving creature. With it spitting from its peppery throats, muses of teeth and chewing tabacco. Covering and rubbing themselves down in safron. Laughing, they were made red by the swells of beeds in our arms, tapping together for rhythm. While we were looking up it swayed and moved. Stamping its many feet in the corners of the kindling covered then darkend floor. When suspended it would gladly take its opportunity to leave the ground and any chance that our together music made.When it hung from here, there was no motion and no hardened clay from which to drink. We were only made to sleep via the wires silking spiders.

the snail lost its teeth

it became a leech

imagined for as long as i will remember

followed it on the lines, traversed the wires between your electricity

there print has gone

cracks occurring in his feet, both his mother and his father have spurs

walk the prism head walk

walk prism head walk

starting the blog

i dont know what i am doing