The factory

There is no way of getting into the factory. But things do get out: cats, curses, mannequins.
The factory is owned by a man called Mr Vogel. He is sometimes seen cycling to work, back hunched, beak-like nose stabbing the air.

Mr Vogel always leaves the house before dawn. The early bird catches the worm. Storm clouds gather at his back.

The dimensions of the factory are difficult to ascertain. However, it is almost certainly larger than a music box & smaller than a mountain.

At night, when the wind is in the right direction, you can hear coming from the factory howls, screams, laughter & the cawing of seagulls.

Mr Vogel watches over the factory from his baroque tree house.

The factory windows are barred. Gunmen sit in turrets on the corners of the perimeter fence. Smoke surges incessantly from the chimney.

Not everyone accepts the existence of the factory. Many are adamant that it is a trick of the light, its monstrous chimney a mirage.


And this body intends to be nowhere else but here, sitting on this chair; the one with the legs made of saliva.

The object of this physique is to establish whether or not the seat, supported on its spittle-limbs, is in fact a chair or not.

These bulky bones make an impression on this chintz cushion that is stuffed with teeth-torn nails; jagged and ripped half-moons.

The air is thick with terror. It passes through the investigative figure’s shaking lungs and re-emerges as a shared joke.

Tears the size of lagoons drop to the carpet which, is no longer a nylon weave but has become instead a shaved scalp.

The formless form places a cracked glass to its thirst, what was once clear, cool water is now strands of hair. It chokes.

Fingerprints litter the floor and on the bed a greasy pillowcase shows where a phantom head shifts uneasily from side to side all night.

Sleep is impossible until the conundrum is solved. The weight of an insomniac is equal to that of a 50 litre barrel of blood.

It tosses, scratches, rubs. Flecks of irritation permanently mess that corner. But it is not known why this phenomenon occurs.

Neither is it understood who or what dirties these clothes; shit-stained underwear skid-marked with itches.

Off-white sweat patches mapped into armpits. Mucous seepage everywhere.


A climate of effluvia everywhere.

A Lice

When I stare at my miserly body mirrored in the intimate imitation of the hours of yesterday, I ache to step outside the limitations of its guilt-edged frame.

I want to go beyond the sensation of the scared child glaring blackly back, to shut-down its tirade of tyrannical thoughts and openly become a ferocious cloud, a mighty waterfall or a cyclical happening of ceaseless breaths.

I have prodded and pushed myself into many inappropriate positions. I have tried to face-up to the lies of the loaded dice and I have eaten the earthly flesh from both sides of the nonsense-mushroom; only to gag on its bitterness.

Wonderland was the world I was told to long for; the place where anything could happen, the place where I could grow a new head.

Instead I have become my own infatuation, my own torturer and my own mean-minded master. I wear weird costumes and queer masks, I perform bizarre tasks. I invent fabulous horrors for myself and I disobey my commands. There are no rules here. I drop like sand through my own fingers; I am an esoteric storyteller.

And I am the heroine, hurled into outrageous adventures, swirling anticlockwise through corridors of locked doors.

I tease myself with out-of-reach keys and ingest drugs that make me shrink, then swell me to enormous proportions. I cry tears big enough to drown in and float along in this plot like an upturned boat.

Occasionally I get stranded on a strange island, where cats and mice play cat-and-mouse games with me and scare away the imaginary birds.

Some days, dressed as a white rabbit, I magically return to the beginning, to chastise my make-believe other and taunt my invented self with a hypnotic watch that ticks backwards.

Glove Story

Gloves mate for life but,

the solo-glove is a mutant udder, an other of deformed teats, seeking another. Another in search of its misplaced (s) wanting to pluralise into a conjoined-twining.

It is also a stranded deep-sea creature washed too far ashore, unable to return to its aquatic habits.

Within the solo-glove’s jewelled imagination, it senses the five thefts of the finite.

This uninvited criminal act is deliberately performed by a tricky sand-villainess. Often regarded as that in which judgements flourish alongside one another, this femme fatale steals the solo-glove’s liberties.

This uninvited criminal act is deliberately termed, ‘Sightseer’ and purposely labelled, womanly.

Undeterred by her sticky mittens, the solo-glove suffers incessant dizzy spells but, as our unlawful lady’s name suggests, she is not only the solo-glove’s nemesis, she is also the solo-glove’s honoured guest.

The scheming of those refracting, factual moons, whose relatives are not adverse to any occurrence that has too many broken others, is represented by those devious brothers; Previously, Currently and Up-and-coming. They are the solo-glove’s fractalised selves.

When it is past the tense stage and no waking-words can alter this because its nocturnal-flagships have emerged and merged, the solo-glove’s emasculated cries will take first prize, morning, noon and night AND IT WILL CALLOUT FOR JUSTICE!

And see, here are the solo-glove’s gory hands, and its embarrassed eyes, and swinging sex organs that spit and crackle and flash –

All are so quick to vanish it’s as if a star has come to personally deliver the collapsed pain of its spectacular implosion.

To ensure the solo-glove does not forget it is inseparable from its other-handed pair, thumbprints are taken.

Despite this, the solo-glove continues diving though ultramarine hoops, searching for forlorn treasure-maps, grabbing at sheets and stabbing at meat.

And slowly but surely, the next phase appears to go on and on and on, eating the solo-glove’s heart out.

Once upon a tweet

Once upon a tweet there was a time but it was limited & the characters were few & cramped together & death beckoned impatiently as I typed.

Once upon a tweet there was a man who tried to build a house with words but made a world instead. Every door led to a new continent.
Once upon a tweet there was a story, curled tight in a box in a drawer in a room. A little girl opened the box and saw herself in embryo.
Once upon a tweet there was a maze of storylines in the palm of the reader’s hand. The author wandered, lost.
Once upon a tweet a character was born in the prison of a brain cell. The author allowed him occasional parole.
Once upon a tweet there was a man who fell and became a monster. On the other side of the mirror, a monster learned to become a man.
Once upon a tweet I wrote myself in miniature.
Once upon a tweet a blade of grass became an impossible tower.
Once upon a tweet an image roosted on the edge of a precipice.
Once upon a tweet the reader chatted with the author and the story went its own way.
Once upon a tweet the reader dug for meaning and fell into his grave.
Once upon a tweet a story spread like a virus.


Originally published as a series of tweets. 

Variations on Cloud, Text, Rain, Music: A Riff (3)

One split second of excruciating boredom between two mildly diverting texts is enough, said the rain.

One aims for a cloudy kind of sanity, another for the madness of rain. How to reconcile these in a single text? How to hear music?

The text of rain is indecipherable yet audible. The conversation of rain is indistinguishable from the music of rain.

The text of music apprehended as between a cry and a whistle. Between rain running down one’s face and as noise in the chest.

Weather is brewing the possibility of rain. We read its text forward like an apprehension of music and the meaning of music.

I am music, says rain. I am text, says music. I am rain says text. I am, I am, I am. Somebody somewhere is. So say text, music and rain.

I have not considered the question of mortality, says music. I am mortality. That’s what the text says. And look, it’s raining.

There is no text only the possibility of rain. There is always the possibility of rain.


This text is rain. This other text is cloud. This night is a potential language someone might actually speak, given some music.

Music is not exactly language. It is denser than that. Clouds and rain are text that might be produced by music, not that you could read it.

Always this shifting of terms, as if terms were clouds capable of producing rain. At least there is music and the text of night.

One pushes terms around as if they were clouds that might produce a readable text of rain. It’s dark and silent but for the music.

This music is a form of rain but denser. It is solid with text. There might be a cloud dictionary somewhere but it’s too dark to read now.

This is the universe talking to itself in a language of cloud through a text of rain. The night is dense with music one might almost read.

No, no, insists language. Neither this cloud, nor that rain. Possibly the music. Almost certainly the night. You ask too much of text.

The rest is not silence. Clouds are not silent while there remains the possibility of rain. While rain may be imagined. While there is text.