Mark Heathcote

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryEunectes Murinus Anna Marie316 years 4 months ago
StoryToothless Wander lenchenelf916 years 4 months ago
StoryHow royally Avant-garde am I? Mark Heathcote116 years 6 months ago
StoryNearly human (again) Nick.A316 years 8 months ago
StoryDo the British take their brollies? Mark Heathcote616 years 10 months ago
StoryVII Stanzas Mark Heathcote216 years 10 months ago
StoryA Lovely Day Jupiter1816 years 11 months ago
StoryThe Trouble with Grace Silver Spun Sand3017 years 2 days ago
StoryChaosity Kills jennifer217 years 5 months ago
StoryPenetrates jennifer117 years 9 months ago
StoryThe music of one’s love is deaf and dumb Mark Heathcote317 years 9 months ago
StoryA Cautionary Tale MistakenMagic218 years 1 week ago
StoryIn these cormorant hours spent swift Mark Heathcote218 years 4 weeks ago

My stories

Ex-Streams of consciousness’

Eternal life is a blank page... In a diary that goes unwritten. Life is an entry in that diary-page That continues daily to be written. The universe therefore is a library

Peace on a bough never withers

As is, has been, has will be seen All that is night is day File at the prison-bars, light the gasoline! Death is indifferent, anyway. Pies need a crust; a dog its lust.

A poetic exile

What is there to berate Life—for: Why equate It has not any meaning..? Every sap that’s shelled-out The husk, longs further, seeding. “Every breath a water-spout

What we worship guides our thirst...

“Only he God can charge or judge The ink, that pores-out its blood. That algae-spore” of each, dreams-drudge, That made its way—out; from the crud.

38 yrs—on,

As my eyes now fixed abysmally Ahead of some far distant point Way-down Market Street, Piccadilly Time lurches-on, takes my viewpoint

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