Northam

Out of the cave blonde interstitial girl said she'd loved           chain-
link           with sweaty hands and bricolaged            tricolor (pink,
turquoise, gold) bound with cheap             brass rings and mesh fences

blend, vortex to the introverted black            dots and blitheness by 2
surfaces joining at a platonically               perfect edge happy smiles
always drawn,        too snug a fit.         Looking down the  black shade
barrel of a        silver toy-gun          mimicking wormholes that fleshy
worms wriggle on       wire-matting      ready to ring      Pull the flush

where apoptosis tugged               into view the earth tag disconnecting
a forefinger & thumb ring for waiting stiff               sketched no gaps
in my knowledge-base reigns                            belt buckle on "BAD
DOG" stretching tongue into it's                     brass hole but crying

In the tunnel of bed            clothes with badger and moley winter-sett,
eagerly for dad to              dig holes in the ground waiting to deliver
swag full of cavities of resonance, now                       X-band wave-
guides should always                  deliver total scrumptiousness,right?

Like so much cheese never makes it into Swiss,                 the dancing
dog in the rampant bindweed of love:                     the doe-eyed girl
flooding fairy liquid can you see?                       I wonder what the
byte bucket, lipped                               over with crusts of glue
melted plastic, dribbled enamel            I kid myself 'snot real, right?

Electrons leave holes move anti by anti Tachyons              thgim teg em
rieht weiv tub pils             The tea slips lip with my gran's fiends in
the back-kitchen but we         wuz getting nowhere          and I quietly
event horizons googol           Something worsening      carefully You ask

repeated kisses on Christmas day walking to                 Appledore with
granp whose debug & diagnostics &                      data recovery would
assert false        but that quiet hand for a fish-    hooked Jack Russell

rolling down grass hill roll of tickets   streamered        over-arm loops
enquiring of wild daisies in the                back lanes built on inter-
connectedness of networks               does not always ensure nice colour
schemes,          even ones that slip                   over into remember
nullity pointers edge                     around chipped lips of barleymow

My friend at the door wild      eyes been followed        Is that a shelf?
Where was the TV? I know some holes are meant:              I pouring fire
fire on my skin (even now irons fire, fire irons:          dunno, really?)

We         ranged under cold winter sky for an empty dog,           before
but           I, leave Consider me a doughnut of memory and I'll be happy,
no?