Put the petal to the medal.
The Burgundy Fog swooped through our rooms, our streets, our civic centres and our empty amusement arcades. None of us saw it coming.
I'm not Steven Moffat, Although folk have told me otherwise. 'Folk' is not a word Steven Moffat would use. Not least in the context of a poem about himself.
I wrote the title Then I figured I'd decide what to write about. But she feels sick. So I should write about that. We drank a bottle each at the pub.
So it's okay To spell things how you want Like the Dictionary is just a suggestion A guide A vague road map, open To interpretation.
My passport photograph looks like a pissed-up silkworm. My graduation photo is all velvet tentacles and dark rags. My first memory is of the credits sequence of the Sweeney Todd remake.
Tonight at The Caramel Prince, we have lush pastoral chimes and bearded hedge-funding from Gorehorse (8.00-8.10), then we'll be introducing fresh lemonade-inducing crimehop to the stage in the form...
Start the vacuum engine, she said. I don't know what it's going to do, I said. Just press the bloody button already, she said. We haven't properly tested it yet, I said.
Grab your camera bag, We're going hunting. Sloping down avenues, tethered To rusted clouds and distant stars.
Starters. Polished gravy granule. Woodman's Flaunt. Hoisin spiky Jew on a crusty bed. Lynch mob choirboy. Special Event salmon. Radox Justice. Main Meals.
"There were these things growing out of my armpits. They were a beetroot colour and they looked like stalks. They had buds on the ends. A friend and I googled it and it was in a medieval book.
Dead-eyed, he paws the cottage's oak parlour door. Four mews erupt from his neck, a bloodclot clambering further through his heartstrings with each one. He tips, lists, tumbles, stays.