Mark Heathcote

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryFlightless angels shall fervently stare Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryEven the cuckoo has to find its layer... Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryEgotistic eccentric things like this… Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryForever autumn Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFumbling for words... Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryFollow my coat tails... Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryEx-Streams of consciousness’ Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFor all the worlds caring—we’ve done! Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryFrom A to Z Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryFor you Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryDivergent rivers Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryDispatching doves Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFEAR... Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryDivisions of vanity Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryEpée duel? Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryEverest Mark Heathcote113 years 1 month ago
StoryFinger on the pulse Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryFinal burst of flourishing stillness in the radiance of I? Mark Heathcote013 years 1 month ago
StoryHeart Felt harveyjoseph213 years 2 months ago
StoryI Hope You've Got A Daughter Now Jane Hyphen813 years 3 months ago
Storycrowded a.lesser.thing513 years 3 months 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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