Mark Heathcote

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryFor: Edith Södergran Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFagan or scrooge Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFilter out the dreamless, sleepless dark Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryEnd of day’s that's what I bequeath Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFlightless angels shall fervently stare Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryEven the cuckoo has to find its layer... Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryEgotistic eccentric things like this… Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryForever autumn Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFumbling for words... Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryFollow my coat tails... Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryEx-Streams of consciousness’ Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFor all the worlds caring—we’ve done! Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryFrom A to Z Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryFor you Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryDivergent rivers Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryDispatching doves Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFEAR... Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryDivisions of vanity Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryEpée duel? Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago
StoryEverest Mark Heathcote112 years 1 month ago
StoryFinger on the pulse Mark Heathcote012 years 1 month ago

My stories

You’re not middle aged yet you think?

Old age then your back aches Becomes a viaduct arch of pain Foundation’s get subsidence You lose 10inches all elegance In thought your opinion’s tower

Crab apple…

We've all sunken teeth into a sour ball. Aghast at its bitter depths of beauty, Hidden too appal like human nature. Loves no different than this tutti-frutti These golden orbs halve rouge with pith They're shrunken skull's a coffins core. With a taste like a dead suns zenith, O tang of death it's rancorous, tariff.

Sunday papers

Now the coffeepot has gone cold. I can see it clearly in her eyes, There’s no more steam or caffeine Demerara sugar or cream… There are no more shortcake biscuits,

Treasure me like a desert sun

Treasure me like a desert sun Take me for all the sap you can. Be my cacti, my lover pricking Every nerve end till I (…wan!) Oh I’ll make olive oil at dawn

Wardrobe-skeletons

The perils of wardrobe-skeletons Holding keys to abandoned souls. And hearts covered with lesions… Rattling in self-confining asbos Is a self-abuse shadowy iceberg?

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