Read

********************************************************

Tick Tock Tick Tock. The colour continued to fade from Trevor Harris' thick knuckles as his hands clasped tighter around his coffee mug. Still full, it's golden contents were now becoming a less attractive murky brown. Opening his eyes he flung back his and fixing his eyes on the black and white square tiles he tried to focus. Exhaling loudly he again looked at the post-it note his P.A, Sheila had left stuck to his plasma monitor.

Another Dawn, Another Day. A morning mist hung over Sterling Avenue, its' dampness shrouding the sandy brown slated roofs and what branches the now naked trees had left. An early morning breeze blows empty crisp packets along the residential areas' tarmac pavement. Most of the residents still deep in slumber, as yet unaware of the awful weather that would greet them on this already depressing Monday morning. The wind had got heavier and its' temperature had decreased since the chiming of the clock tower to signal another new day. The chill seemed to be determined in making sure the residents would live to regret it if they forgot their trio of scarf, hat and gloves. If they did forget they would surely feel the airs' coldest breath deep within their bones long after they had settled in their final destination.

Is the new path any more true? Walking back down That same old street again Tried so hard to avoid it But still that route I can't change Lessons still left unlearnt Struggling to travel paths anew

Car ki der You look like an eskimo with that upturned nose that clutch of black hair - the smirk of a birth mark the size of a tooth on the mitre of your shoulder, you can tell you sleep in no ordinary bed

I am a prisoner of myself, Things i want to do, are left on the shelf, Things in life i must miss, Parts the sun cannot kiss. It is a curse, some people say

A seemingly high-brow but surprisingly base poem.

This is a warning to whoever would like to read this book, or, to be frank, any other material described as 'literary'. It is highly dangerous. The lab tests haven't come back yet, but I'm sure they'll find conclusive evidence that books are, in fact, toxic. They are the bi-product of evil, a secret weapon of mass destruction that no-one has thought to wield - but a library in the wrong hands could easily compromise the safety of Earth's inhabitants.

I found you under my desk Cleaning my shoes and begging for mercy I kept you there all day With treats and threats And a crack of my multi-tailed feline friend And an imperious point of my finger As you tried to climb out