Memos from MOSA (The Ministry of Subterranean Affairs)

Secretarial staff, DO NOT use the Earthquake Typewriter!! How many times do you need us to tell you?

It is not in the best tradition of MOSA for the Junior Secretary for Stalactites to engage the Junior Secretary for Stalagmites in fisticuffs.


The Sub-Department for Caverns are advised that units of used paper clips in excess of one ton should be deposited in the Bottomless Well.


The Sub-Department for Depths & Trenches should not be expected to accept the wanton tipping of stationery into their abyssal repositories.


MOSA Protocols for Engaging with Rick Wakeman update: Rick did NOT discover the Centre of the Earth, and is NOT to be addressed as ‘Keyboard King of the Underlands’.


MOSA Wakeman Protocols update: staff are under no obligation to listen to more than three hours of organ recital at any one time.


MOSA Wakeman Protocols update: Ministry staff are NOT permitted to join alternative line-ups of Yes ‘just to be polite’.


Staff who encounter the Central Glow-Worm should remain perfectly still and think only happy thoughts. Their families will be taken care of.


Staff have asked for guidance as to what constitutes ‘happy thoughts’. The Minister has issued this simple diagram:


The Consul for Interstellar Depths is sure, once the Space Centipedes have been defeated, we’ll get a fix on where staff have been transported to.


We remain confident the Worm folds space into a recurring instance of Interstellar Origami, and so staff are being sent to the same planet, approximately.


Unfortunately, so far all the Ministry’s Origami Analysts have softly and silently vanished away, and so new Folders are urgently being sought.


Dreamers in the thousand year caves have been woken, but such convoluted dreams require delicate, expert, and lengthy decipherment.


Unfortunately, the longstanding ‘difficulty of understanding’ between MOSA and the Ministry of Decipherment continues to hamper our best efforts.

Rose Noir

That woman with the head made out of a single giant rose, the one who cried an iron tear – what colour was the rose again?

All my memories of the occasion were in black and white. One moccasin was black, and the other one white.


Do you remember? Because the tear was made out of iron, it was the wrong shape to roll, so it just fell on her moccasin.


Which moccasin did the iron tear fall on, the black one, or the white one? Whichever, it just went straight through that thing like butter.


Was the butter white or black? I can’t remember the colour of whatever it was that came out of her wounded foot – was that the butter?


Anyway, that was when the thorns started growing out of her – palms first, but pretty soon all over her arms and legs. How jerky it all was!


Maybe that’s just my memory. I wish you’d write to me sometime, given that you can’t speak. Or am I supposed to understand these perfumes?


Remember how we called them the non sequiturs, because they were secateurs, and they beheaded that nun? Was that supposed to be funny?


Do you even know who I am any more? Does anything I’m saying make sense to you? God, that we should have come to this, after the Garden…

At the beginning of the end

At the beginning of the end, the mannequins stopped playing dead.

At the beginning of the end, words cracked in two and Hell poured out of them.

At the beginning of the end, all the lights went out and we heard a crowd shouting and laughing. The singing started later.

At the beginning of the end, planes fell from the sky. Some were mistaken for avenging angels.

At the beginning of the end, water gushed from our taps. We couldn’t stop it. Soon, the flood waters erased the cities.

At the beginning of the end, the mirrors gave back diminished images. We shuffled, emaciated, in the dark glass.

At the beginning of the end, our dogs found their wolfishness. Cats paraded triumphally through the screaming streets.

At the beginning of the end, the dead rose and we were shocked that they could speak, that words wormed from their ruined mouths.

At the beginning of the end, day and night swapped clothing. The sun and moon clashed during the exchange.

At the beginning of the end, mathematics murdered the masses.

At the beginning of the end, the clocks laughed and gave up their secrets.

At the beginning of the end, Barbie and Ken toyed with us, placed us in compromising poses.

At the beginning of the end, our beliefs poured from our eyes, our ears, our noses, our mouths, leaving us empty, dried up, still.

At the beginning of the end, snow monsters set fire to the fractured palaces of trade.

At the beginning of the end, we found solace in eating. Everything was fair game. Cannibalism was the mildest of our crimes.

At the beginning of the end, we got caught in the mechanisms of desire and bled over our smartphones.

At the beginning of the end, we found real piranhas in the stream of images.

At the beginning of the end, money burned in the labyrinth.

At the beginning of the end, grinning men with big ideas lit napalm cigars.

At the beginning of the end, the trees clasped us to them, cooed over us, nursed us, gathered us into them, became our coffins.

THE DAISY SEQUENCE (An Unconventional Romance)

Drawn from the language of Mills & Boon romances, this text is a reworking of a randomly selected paperback. 

It is written sequentially. As I scan-read the book, page by page, letting words and phrases present themselves to me, a strange narrative evolves. This methodology offers the reader an offbeat, potentially erotic storyline. 

Using ‘Twitter’ as a first format for presenting the text, each section was formed of ‘tweet-sized’ chunks.

Here it is in its entirety

Daisy froze distinctive drawl. It pierced the buzz and bolt of alarm. She had to be lashed by tongue duty. Swinging people expected her. Daisy stretched the spray that sprouted a few blue arrowheads. She checked every spillage. Elbowing her fixable stain was this nasty crisis. Daisy stopped emotions. Her inner savage flesh was power-packed to shoot hostile eyebrows. Puzzlement bored into distraction. Daisy clicked.

Daisy had one arm in his sculpted mouth, perfect white teeth making Daisy’s spine crawl. Daisy pleasure rattled out. He viewed her brown. Daisy viciously took his grip, pressing a dominant please and giving subservient temper. Simmering, perverse, limelight floated unreal lack. Daisy held firm cutting. He nodded towards the disappointment. The rush of watching mischief and the ego trip with feather girlfriends. Daisy slid his blunt fireworks, curvy body swish into her scalp chocolate. To extract himself like dirt he slung a slave tossed shrug.

Daisy left horses glued to suburban anxiety. Privately, she bothered chefs. Rigid venomous stomach churn. Her battle with cage. He’d automatically force a face-to-face, aroused like a pale bristle. She sucked a shooting act. Her mouth blistering precision. Impasse. She tried biting mocking instructions. His body evasion attacked her reading. He stilted her beautifully feminine bitch fingernails. Oh!

Daisy’s mind was whiplash. Panic ribbons sliced in. Daisy tried displeasure. Her hair-prickling bomb was going to fall out. Blabbermouth. Limp and unconscious, he had to hook her blood-jungle. Stiffening, he grimaced. There was a huge smallness of her waist. His bulging agreed.

Daisy babbled offensive affairs and hissed at appalled dizziness. A chair was needed. Correctness would answer his actions. Black dog wits. The phrase wrecked his face. Daisy flocked extreme guilt. She drove messy twiddling to several trucks. The flood was huge, white symmetry. Daisy couldn’t bear justice, she’d stopgap male charisma. Riveting him near hormones, despite differences. His touch was a pink nothing.

Daisy was unsettling. He spoiled obscene people. She’d been a blind charmer. All he’d been was a forging crisis. Disillusionment lingered. Dirty bedrooms and enormous vanity, her head wasn’t messy. Daisy bit too disturbingly strong. He rattled out a short and stocky mistake. Daisy made the men laying the mix, splash. She shot a bit too much into airs and graces. She laid out on the floor, regret at its removal. Perhaps the lady wanted a good block. She snags the flow. A man brushing a physical flash needed her bent. Daisy greeted silk, the deep V.

Curly muscularity oozed, the more she saw of him. Wantonness eroding to lift her above. Daisy would have intimate dreams. Opened sex at eyes. The twinkling flutter flashed a teasing grin. Besotted by mush, her pulse tossed a featherlight thundering. Her terrible part sucked in. Daisy was vulnerability coming a wad. She mouth-quirked amusement to emphasise splash. He popped out of her smile, smacked a fun promise.

Tomorrow drove the kiss coursing in a sweeping staircase. Only constraints stopped him. Daisy surrendered to the vibrating moment. They met.

Daisy was wearing trim socks, athletic loose blue over a sensible sexless outfit. One stomach simmered green. Men are up. Down the vacuum. Wives dropping hostess salads, onions with a shrug. Daisy was vexed, she would dump her cucumber vigour. Chemistry was pillow-talk gamble. She could manage a cherry whipping. Those wickedly urgent limits. Compelling some headway, she’d played dead-meat sex. Steak and sausages. Every second it jerked her to dripping wet. Emanating savage quivers, he’d slid her with fast fingers. She was uncontrollable in maintaining. Her body-frantic snatching stripped thought. Daisy had jelly belly water watching husbands joking devotion. He irked to arouse her nerves. Daisy rose to difficult tongue. Her quip legs shining like a brazen pouch. Her blood-conscious nipples insisted a stiff anxiety. Sensual? He waved meat rustle, leaving Daisy open-mouthed, struggling for escape. She would have him by beating him. She could hold vulnerability.

Daisy changed back into morning, an acute light pretending the surface. The wipe-me-off attraction anticipating easy twinkling. She sliced. She netted a delusion beat. Her rocket, his bemusement. The fizz of pleasure undermined the bruise. His relish in bearing his foolish loss. Daisy practised to dominate every skillful beating. He dropped, he tossed, he swept. Banging exertion, her body was hot, wild, surge. Kiss. Clamping her spread hair, his intimate furrowing locked her scent. His untouchable embrace more lusty animal than the break-up. Earth hate. She didn’t Cinderella him, he’d had enough crooked prize pushed on and going home. Tomorrow she couldn’t trust herself. Jeopardy would be.

Daisy responded sex fantastic. She erupted shock criteria bouncing swiftly toward the caveman. His angle followed her to the pride equation. Daisy could barely bind umbrage. She had passionate twisted expertise but was his flesh pumped? Daisy had wet patches. Working laces, sigh. He laid the groundwork. Anguished weakness waiting for sardonic satisfaction. She was shying hot colour. The time span jagged harshly.

Debt. Future mistress, sweeten that humiliating truth with a huge pleasure. Personal wound savagely mocking narrowed victory. She took on a twist. Little witch unhitched, unfolding tension like a compressed house. The nape of her neck reached the closest door. Bitter truth was hers.

Daisy was quickly bubbling mistress depression. Her weather poured warmth. He expected to have her matter-of-factly and as usual she was on. She put telephone-difficult nerves home and ambivalence demonstrated the die was cast. Now he rolled on. At first, Daisy was pinned to it. It was irrelevant what went down in his house, absurd how much pleasure it gave her. Sex was extraordinary lengths, a ruthless softening. The carpet question plus electrical apparatus left the needed elsewhere. Daisy dizzied with ebullience, her excitement a fierce gladness. The next morning, Daisy let him completely dominate her. The line had to be a euphoric state with no physical contact. Cream dip her whirl. He took longer than usual to stop her trembling hands smudging her mascara. Unlikely cleavage, swingy folds, painful mirror. She felt it.

He was mentally fatigued by Daisy waiting for him at home. She’d been so perverse. He hated to take everything, as glass as a ponytail. Pleasure welled in their noses. Daisy the princess-mould and him, the back door. No trace of upper breasts, groin strides, electric thighs. She forgot to remember the kitchen-shock. Patting her free hand, his batted vigour switched off. He was completely primitive-freak-bondage. Eloquently, she smacked his blood. Like a lollipop, she dumped her grin on his stipulated sensitivity. The wish gurgled from her throat.

He rolled on, unbuckling, jackknifed and unzipped. She hadn’t worn her nipples. He commanded her sleeves with all-devouring, inner muscles. His terms had sabotaged her benchmark. Of course the highs were guarantee of time wanted. She wormed bliss on wagging bottom. He spent out.

The morning after… Daisy lay spooned. How did he intend to fill her? Hardship addicted flow was his tired toy. The inevitable line. Very slowly she lifted her bag, clownish eyes fastened in a top-knot. She soaped all over, a brisk erase in her skin. She was in the act. The rich purr of satisfied demanding ran down her spirit. He had a slave breath coming to an abrupt blaze. Battle-vivid laughter rippled.

Daisy felt like an aeroplane. Her coffee-black possession hankering for the whole-moon package. That frightening loss of months. He runs. Though there had been that frightening bed, he started cutting up, shooting up and wading through gold dross. Daisy slipped out a lemon. She tilted an ironic doubting. This power-dress was spicy and eager to burst into arousal. Daisy did not leave satisfied harmony.

She gazed. White wakes shifted her glamourous black wave, hugging her mind until she became a fantastic flute. He wished with flitted mind but he shied. Daisy bent for filching, meticulous about not taking her stick. He locked ice. She hadn’t heard the thick cream. Footsteps murmured relax. Daisy clamped down on the bitter truth.

Her quibble wanted long, fierce desire. His embrace kissed a savage need, all passion when tomorrow.

Daisy’s astonishment was given exaggerated worth. She’d already told them she’d seen a big hole. Her champagne trips made objection free. He was a control freak and Daisy was hopelessly in love with him. She dropped protection, hammered pie and gathered eye-popping stuff. They deepened reasonable galloping. She had emerged and bloomed sunshine, he had pounced on her magic, pink fish. Instincts had to nail her. A crowd of entrance gates escorted her towards a pin-stripe suit, Daisy winced encouragement. He was rudeness needing flamboyant belly hair. He had queen-cupping shoes. Daisy was walkable. He threw up hero-frustration. She tossed off. They simply constructed quizzical graces.

There can be no ego in that story. Daisy let her bitch-loyalty shake hands with a stunningly porcelain hat. The big man demanded quaint cow. Daisy replied, relishing the roll of her tongue. Flirting, the man was with bigger pockets. Daisy answered in gaudy snipe. He held her high. He performed an amazing helicopter parade. Daisy’s chair leaped up. She vacated the empty box and tried riding a dizzying detail. He swept. Bubbles burst into giggles as they rode the elevator. She sucked, he took his willpower under restraint. The moment-door shared it with him.

Until the telephone rang, Daisy automatically repeated skitter-time. He thought sweet problems. She might bring the crushing dream. It was. Daisy emphatically burned violet stress. Her fly-panic fumbled the probing ferocity. He frowned. Her hook glinted with sickening doubt. She believed in being obscenely, sinfully, sexy. Her obsessed counting was as odd as a huge basket of misgivings. Daisy dressed in green.

She heaved a sigh to loosen up the tightness. A wobbly burden drove them to appologise in a cul-de-sac. Children nodded. Daisy watched baby. Daisy yelled awkward husband material. His stumbling blocks crossed the centrepiece. He complimented her mother-pork. She felt constrained. They swooped on astonishment. They crowed puzzles. They cheerfully scoffed about toast and a black hole. They raised a family of nose dreams.

Hammer Of The Pets

Hammer Of The Pets: dealing with your pets for twenty years – the way you’d like to, but simply don’t have the guts to follow through!


We do the time, so two years down the line, you can buy another Mr Fluffy exactly the same stupid colour.


Hammer Of The Pets: NOW AVAILABLE for neighbours’ pets too! Basically a hitman service for yappy dogs, and cats that shit where they shouldn’t!


Just select ‘Toffee Hammer’ for lapdogs and macaws. ‘Silver Hammer Service’ available for a supplement only for certain pedigrees.


Amusingly, many people ask us can we ‘take care of’ their hammerhead sharks and if so how? With a sub-machine gun, mo’fuckers.


Hammer Of The Pets: We receive many enquiries re our ‘Tarzan’ service, in which we wrassle your pet while dressed as Tarzan. Yes, it’s grim, but,


we like to think, ultimately uplifting. Particularly when we lift your pet’s lifeless form above our head and ululate to the Moon.