The green man's alter ego
a cabaret of verisimilitude
only its name preserving its shape in a ashen cobweb of sound, wistful and delicious as if heard whispered on a marsh wind.
Boxing Day at Stansted; each expression is the scab-picked wound of a Christmas too quickly spent.
“It’s fine, my boy – Mummy’s treatment is a game of Space Invaders very nearly won.”
Slink out the service tunnel at Finsbury Park
90’s internet technology precluded humour; the bing-bing-brrrrs of a 56k modem wear thin after the third dial-up, and twitter’s 140 characters elicit waffle. Better to
This wheat field on our right – like a crumpled duvet of pinstripes would’ve been the last thing 6 of them saw