Mark Heathcote

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryFlightless angels shall fervently stare Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryEven the cuckoo has to find its layer... Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryEgotistic eccentric things like this… Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryForever autumn Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFumbling for words... Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryFollow my coat tails... Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryEx-Streams of consciousness’ Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFor all the worlds caring—we’ve done! Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryFrom A to Z Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryFor you Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryDivergent rivers Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryDispatching doves Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFEAR... Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryDivisions of vanity Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryEpée duel? Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryEverest Mark Heathcote112 years 11 months ago
StoryFinger on the pulse Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryFinal burst of flourishing stillness in the radiance of I? Mark Heathcote012 years 11 months ago
StoryHeart Felt harveyjoseph212 years 11 months ago
StoryI Hope You've Got A Daughter Now Jane Hyphen813 years 3 weeks ago
Storycrowded a.lesser.thing513 years 3 weeks 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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