He opened his eyes to slits. Then he raised his head and licked his lips and yawned. He was dizzy. His bed had been made out of the garden, though he did not know why he was there or where he was. The leaves flapped and crumpled as he moved to steady himself, then stretch his body into a state of readiness. He was surrounded by plants and shrubs: rhododendron, azalea, honeysuckle. Small flurries of light buzzed before his eyes. He threw himself to the floor and buried them under the fallen leaves. His nose picked up a scent. He followed it. In a clearing there was a big, stone table upon which was laid a book. He nudged the book off the table and the table sank into the grass with the sounds of crackling fat and twisting timber. He whimpered. The sun hung above the tips of the trees, full of courage and power. Light beamed from gaps in the woods. His little form seemed ready to burst with fear. Birds hummed and zipped in the air before him. The scent was weaker now. Then, he heard a whistle. Then another. A stick hurtled through the air and caught him on the back of the neck. He yelped. His chest lowered down to the woodland floor, his tail pointed to the sun and his teeth emerged, pointed and bright. The sun poured power and courage into his quivering body until he was straining to hold himself back. A dark form stepped between a shaft of light. His claws dug deep into the earth and he leapt at the silhouette, burying his teeth into it.
‘Bobby…’ the voice gurgled; blood bubbling from its pale, trembling mouth.


Fibre Match

Hula hula. Sound the horn. Chaser lights in gravy. Tweed suits and serious issues. Young animals with death in their bellies. The attic creaks with secrets. Two people, far apart, think of a world without each other. Harmonica’s dangle from the rear view mirror. Speculation on coming catastrophe’s. Lightening left-right combinations. How to knock a person out from across the room. Drowning in fizzy piss and tears. Writing poetry in blood. A scarecrow cackling at your prostrate form, fingers clawing the wet mud, rain washing everything but the memory into the crop. Soon, sprouting misery, a last hurrah, celebration of the cheap-shot. Scratch your name into a beautiful wooden table top, you wimp. The building hums with spirits of all shapes and persuasions. Hymns ring out for the lost, the dead and the dying. We trundle on through piercing rain in the general direction of hell. Once, I dreamed of drinking a vase of wine. When I came to, the sheets were sodden and I vomited into the toilet. Floating in the acidic mess were pasta shapes spelling the name of a hard forgotten lover. Seventeen dictaphones placed in strategic positions record the comings and goings of this naked ape. This spasm of flesh and nerves. A trail of sonic evidence that this person did something ritualistic, perhaps obsessive, in this location, at this time and on their own. There were a second set of footsteps recorded however. These were more graceful, less easy to pick up at first listening. In lipstick, the words seemed slashing; red, violent and despairing. Deep in the pigment, there was suspended a memory of him. Though no fine tuned detection would or could pick up the subtlety of the trace. A thin cord attached them but for how long, who knew. It seemed as though it might break at any time.

Wait, what’s this; a new sun? No. Someone with their headlights on full beam while I try to sleep. On the boards, under the sea, halfway between you, halfway between me.