“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”

Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.

“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”

The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.

Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).

Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.

Overnight the years twist.

Edgar Snooker has  heard he is to play ******'s dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.

As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,

As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,

As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,

As her money is without temperament,

As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,

So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.

As candles whisper in the middle of the road,

As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,

So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.

Furthermore, began St Anne by the Sea,
And a spotty Doctor Newcastle got down on one knee.
I hear the old folk *******.
I hear ducks up the chimney.
I'm eating hymn books and confetti;
Sweating mud now.

The very nearly possible was there;
Lovely laughing Uncle April was there;
The plump thigh from your thrilling island was there also;
The Balsam Boy,
The basil canary,
The mustard customer from Rhyl

We dated a wasting blue on the old shopping hill.
You had been with the Superintendent of cream
In the back rooms of Matthew August Ltd.
In private I was brown because of my tinnitus.
My child was only half written
According to those forty enormous Liverpools,
According to those three vaginal cannonballs.

Horace Horace and his delicious old porridge was the inability setting.
Thought clumsiness was in fashion back then.
Upstairs could hear the downstairs *******.

Now mock Tudor glands have all the critical opportunity
And hands pull on my circular feet.
Glum songbirds mingle in the dissapointment larder
Of the Transport Office between Mr Kane and his ***** milk.
The tutted Beryl train accounts for neither the sad 13,
Nor the burgundy drums of Cologne.

The dark doodad brigade broke the Parisian child pipes,
So now the garnet ***** are a very dusty parcel indeed.
And Sir Billick’s magnificent bottom of forty years has beckoned.

What delicious and capable spondees!
What fruits we acquired for Captain Mary!
We remember nothing therefore.

Now we must wash our spectacles
And take sympathetic musical suggestion for our tugged Nightingale methods.

She spent a disappointing morning gathering poison
In a hollowed out heart,
And farted in the Tuesday darkness.

I’m Dumpty, she said, Call the Leader.
Feed me in the face.
Then she drew two ***** circles on the pillowcase.

Mrs. Hydrogen arrived in Mr. Rousseau's socks
To talk to Randolph Paradox.

Exceptional thinness is finished,
They said,
So she took a chisel to the sea
And hung all her hair in a snake egg tree.

These five plums
Are here for the week
Treat them well,
Said Clarence Benn-Bell.

The depiction of listening to 1845
Makes him feel more unborn
Than alive.
Makes him feel under milky water
Makes him feel porky and flat.
Makes him weep for his nation
And the late Mr. Drepple's Thursday hat
Has arrived at last at its destination.

His breakfast combines six morning sources.
James cannot form four of those.
Agnes took 18 historical rejects,
But the death table of April 1819
Was between a grave of kites and a stained editor of physical mouth types.
Whilst the dreaded Evidence Garden is structurally within St Autumn's torture night.

Archie Monroe, the swollen bell ringer of Lavender Moor,
Is looking to sell his copper claw,
His wartime Horlick’s pedals,
And his ferocious bone lick with its wet mink sheath.
He half believes in two thirds of a God every other end of the day.
He believes in St. Clank, and the spanking of the parable,
He believes in the Holy Bee and the miracle of the monocle.
He's walking all lookable
He talks about succulent;
The warm unbuttoned government;
The other worldly succubus,
And tickled sinners such as us
Who never want to make a fuss.

The curled up nurse of Russia Road is building ghosts of crimson brick,
Hurting the sick, and Christmas pale
With the poisoned tip of her sharpened nail.
She nestles by comparison with the dullards of noon.
Who would have thought it expensively cruel
To do it in the dentist froth,
Now that she's lost in Hoxton Square?
Barely able to breath;
Hairy and ****;
Sticky to the last.


See the violent and widespread bed spasms of Arbuckle’s bottle,
And the lamp lit cancer of corrosive blue whining,
The ill mannered throat-goose
And the manicured miscarriage of Mendleson's twenty fourth mother.
Felix was peeling
We knew it to be true,
Even back then
In the pickled omentum.
The pompous rebuffs and the transparent gloves of yawning;
It seemed not she like.

See the museum’s scratched trumpet mask of medical sod,
And the soft dissection of the ink *****.
Implements of ticking and slip with the slow itch and clop.
The anatomy doll, all green and glad;
Its uncertain internal shrinking of Crippen;
The skull’s Baron of the Intact Apparent.

She cradles her parents in terrified liver
Resembling dill with an unusual, excitable finish.
Meanwhile out in Kraków:
The idiotic London guillotine shop
Shows eight obscene operation reveals trembling on a saucer.
This, I'm unafraid to never say, is not almost uncertainly bowel pay.